


Magestuck: Chakradharma

by Bluecho4



Series: Magestuck: The Ascension [2]
Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures, Mage: The Ascension, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World of Darkness, Blood and Gore, Gen, Humanstuck, Magic, Mysticism, Non-Linear Narrative, Original Character Death(s), Surreal, Time Skips, magestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:11:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluecho4/pseuds/Bluecho4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, a little girl died. But her work in this life wasn't over. Not yet. She had Karma yet to pay for.</p><p>Aradia Megido came back from death, and came back changed. Now she dispenses The Good Death, so that the Wheel of reincarnation can spin. She is a Euthanatos. This is her duty - her Chakradharma.</p><p>Welcome to the Corpse Party. Truth Until Paradox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Good Death

#### 

February 2012

Ka-click.

“Don't move.”

The man froze, key poised at the lock.

Norman Bundy's head turned ever so slightly. The suburban neighborhood was bathed in evening darkness, and he dared not make sudden movements. “...wh-who are you? What do you want?”

From the shadows directly behind him, Norman heard the voice of a young woman. “Norman Bundy, you are a serial murderer. This is a fact stated for the record. It doesn't mean accusation or arrest is what's happening here.”

“Are you with the police?” Norman said, sweat rolling down his face.

“No,” she said, drawing back the hammer on her gun. “I am not with the police. I am here to administer the Good Death.”

“Y-you're going to kill me?” Norman said, mouth going dry. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she said. “Your killing spree must come to an end. So I will end it. Sorry.”

A tension flooded out of the man's chest. “Heh...heh heh...thank god...ha ha!” Norman smiled. “...don't be sorry. I'm actually kind of glad.” He raised his hands up – holding only the ring of keys – and looked over his shoulder. “So...do we do it here?”

By the marginal light of the street lamps, he saw the young woman standing behind him. She wore a designer trench coat – maroon like old blood – and a matching crimson hat. Were the hat's brim larger around, she could pass for Carman Sandiego. She even had a head of long black hair to complete the effect. But her skin was darker – like coffee with just a dollop of cream to make it a warm brown. It made her facial features blend in with the darkness.

Except when she smiled – as she did now. Then her bone-white teeth stood out.

“We can go inside, if you want,” she said. “It is rather chilly out tonight. I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable. My name is Aradia, by the way.”

* * *

Norman placed two mugs on the coffee table.

Aradia Megido sat across from him, gun poised calmly in one hand. She smiled. Though the room itself had no light on, the glare from the kitchen illuminated her face, showing off Indian features. “Thank you, Mister Bundy,” she said.

The man smiled nervously, scratching the back of his head. He had a head of modestly long blond hair, which looked as if it had been slicked back earlier in the day, but now strayed here and there. He loosened the tie around his neck, letting it flop against his pressed green shirt. The purple-white jacket he wore was already draped on the back of the couch, which he lowered himself onto. “I'm glad you let me make it, Ms. Megido.”

“Frankly, Mr. Bundy, I don't take any pleasure in my job,” she said, “...despite what my grin may lead you to believe.” She laughed covering her mouth. “Sorry. I wanted to talk first, is all.” She glanced briefly over towards the hallway leading from the front door. “I saw the pictures on the way in. You have a lovely family.”

Norman looked sideways, smiling. “Yes...my wife, Rebecca,” he said, “and my daughter, Jessie. I'm lucky to have...had them.” He turned to face forward, looking down at the table. “I see you've already seen those pictures.”

“Mmm hmm,” Aradia said, leaning back over from the table, holding a framed photograph. It depicted a happy trio – Norman of course, as well a black woman, and a little girl with her mother's complexion and her father's strong nose. “You don't have to worry about them, Mr. Bundy. My sources told me they would be safely at your mother-in-law's. So they won't need to be involved. I chose tonight specifically for that.” She leaned over and set the frame down gently. “That...” she said, leaning back with the mug of coffee in her free hand, “and because those same sources tell me that the woman tied up in your shed is still alive. For the moment.”

The man sighed, nodding. He, too, took up his cup and took a sip. “...how did you find me? You said you had sources?”

Aradia shrugged, taking a sip. “There's no way to say this without sounding weird,” she said, “so I'll just say it. The spirits of your previous victims found me. And they've had free run of your house for quite some time.”

Norman blinked, staring at the woman. “Are...are you serious?”

“Perfectly,” Aradia said, staring back at him. A chill ran up Norman's spine when their eyes met. The woman's mouth crept from a mere smile to a toothy grin. “As an aside...” She took a sip from her cup. “...you make delicious coffee.”

The man blinked, then looked away, taking his own sip. “I don't know,” he said, shaking his head and frowning. “...eh, probably just stress.”

The two sat in silence for a minute, nursing their drinks.

Norman eyed the cup in the woman's hand, then looked down at the gun. “...so, when do we do this?” he said.

“That depends on you,” Aradia said, crossing her legs. The woman held her gun – a polished revolver – with absolute control. It wavered not, nor did Aradia falter in her movements. A practiced hand, not a stranger to killing, despite looking barely legal. “I had a few questions. Like...how all of this got started. When did you decide to become a killer, Mr. Bundy?”

He inhaled. Exhaled. Shut his eyes. “It was eight years ago, when Jessie was on the way.” Norman swirled his cup around nervously. “I was feeling...frustrated, on account of Rebecca being pregnant. Sexaully frustrated, I mean.”

“I gathered,” Aradia said, nodding.

“It was also the stress from work,” Norman said, “putting in extra hours in anticipation for the baby. I needed...time away. Release. Fuck, it sounds awful when I say it like that...”

“I've heard worse,” Aradia said. “I wish I hadn't, but them's the breaks.”

Norman nodded. Was this woman a professional serial killer killer? Heavy. He shook his head. “Anyway, I got myself a hooker,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Things went wrong, then escalated. I picked up a lamp and...took out my frustrations. Took the body out in the car and dumped it in the river.” He looked the woman across from him in the eyes.

It felt like Aradia stared into him. Into his soul.

He swallowed, looking away. “...no...no, that's a lie,” Norman said. “It wasn't just a spur of the moment thing. I'd been feeling like killing someone for years. It started little...a niggling urge. The thoughts stuck with me all throughout me dating Rebecca...the wedding, honeymoon...it's only when I was caving in that woman's skull that I hit the nail on the head. Figured out what it was I really wanted.” Norman looked up, staring hard at the woman. “I lost count of my kills after fourteen.”

Aradia whistled. “Even I wasn't estimating that many,” she said, taking a sip of coffee. “I was sure it was eight. Ten at best. You've been busy. And thorough, in ditching the bodies.” She looked around the room. “...why do it? Just the urge, or is there some deeper meaning?”

Norman snorted, laughing softly, and sadly, to himself. “I could try to go off on some rant,” he said, “claiming that all the whores must die, and cleanse the world of filth...or something. Or try to connect them to my mother, or unresolved marital issues. But...none of that is true.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I have no agenda. I know that no amount of dead prostitutes will make the world better. I had a great relationship with my mother. And Rebecca and I have only had minor arguments over the years.

“No...no, there is no better reason,” Norman said, “no deeper meaning. No just cause I've got in my head. It's the only thing I can hold up as why I'm better than all those other psychos: I'm not delusional.” He sighed. “But...that's not really very impressive, now is it? That I'm self-aware of how much of an awful person I am?”

“Not really,” Aradia said, frowning. She looked sideways and scowled. “It definitely doesn't impress those women.” Her face softened. “Have you considered stopping?”

“I actually did stop,” the man said, nodding. “For about eight months, I didn't kill anyone. I spent time with my family...watched the game with the guys at work. Spent the summer gardening. I was ready to go clean.”

He shook his head. “I broke around Christmas,” Norman said. “I couldn't take it anymore. The urge just kept building and building. I wanted to change, I really did. But I didn't have the willpower to see it through. So I took another victim...and then another. I've been forcing myself to go a few months between each victim, simply to keep myself from falling any further. But it's been hard.”

“Addiction is a powerful thing,” Aradia said, nodding. “That's why you were thankful I came, isn't it? You can't stop yourself anymore, so you need someone else to do it for you?”

The man's face fell into his shaking hand, and he sobbed into his fingers. “Y-yeah...” He looked up, fiddling with his tie. “I kept wanting to stop, but didn't have the will. Then I tried making my murders...sloppier. But I didn't have the nerve. I feared the police catching me as much as I hated myself. Plus...what would happen to my family if I went to prison?”

Aradia shrugged. “Your wife would try to get the best attorneys in the state to defend you,” she said, “then languish for months while you waited for your day in court. Then you'd either be exonerated for lack of evidence – at which case you return home but probably lose your job anyway – or you go to prison. Either way, your wife is left without your income. All the while, she remains confident of your innocence. Convinced that her beloved husband would never do what they say you did. Your daughter would be inconsolable if you went to jail, leading to any number of outcomes, sooner or later in her life. It's not pretty.” Aradia looked into her mug, then downed the last swallow of coffee.

“Exactly,” Norman said, frowning. He looked at the woman hard. “Which is why I'm not going to prison. Or dying.”

“If you're talking about the poison in my coffee,” Aradia said, leaning forward and setting the cup down, “you're out of luck. I neutralized it the moment you handed me the cup.”

Norman Bundy blinked. “What?”

“Sorry, I kind of took the wind out of your sails, there,” she said. “But see, I've already died once.” She frowned. “It wasn't pleasant.” Aradia smiled. “But I got better. Now, I am very much alive. And I intend to stay that way.”

Norman gaped for a moment, eyes wide. Then, he scowled. “You fucking...” He dug his hand into the couch cushions, and pulled out a knife. “...whore!” He threw it point-first at the woman.

Aradia didn't even flinch, raising her free hand and catching the knife by the handle. It stopped mere centimeters from her face. “Honestly, Mr. Bundy,” she said, lowering the knife and extending the pistol towards him. “You're just making this more difficult.”

The man moved to rise, but the woman audibly drew back the hammer of the revolver. Norman, seeing the unwavering grip directed at him, deflated. His shoulders sagged, and he sank back into the couch. His head fell back, and he shut his eyes. “Fuck...dammit...” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling. “Sorry...I had to try, didn't I?”

“A valiant effort, Mr. Bundy,” she said, smiling slightly. “It was an impressive throw.”

“I never had a chance, did I?”

“If I could have been convinced you could change, you could have,” Aradia said, relaxing. Her face softened, as did her voice. “The Good Death is not given lightly. I hoped you could be changed. That you'd return to the straight and narrow. But...” She frowned. “From what I've seen...with the poisoned coffee, the hidden knife...the look in your eyes. And your story, of course...I see a man who has already resigned himself to remaining on a bloody path. You could change...but you don't want to. Even if I wracked your body with disease, inflicted curses of misfortune on you, or even beat you to within an inch of your life. You wouldn't stop. Because you can't.” She leaned forward, frowning sadly. “You are sick, Mr. Bundy. And it won't get better. Not until you are stopped.”

Norman nodded, sipped his coffee, and hunched over his knees. “...why not tell to police?” he said. “I certainly don't want to go. But why not give me to the criminal justice system? Why get personally involved?”

“Besides the fact that you may get off innocent?” Aradia said. “You've been thorough in disposing of your victims. If the police raided your home right now, at best they'd get you on kidnapping. And even that's dubious, if that woman didn't see your face. If you wore a mask when you took her.” She waved her hand, shaking her head. “But if you were convicted, you still die.”

“But that won't be for...what? Thirty years?” Norman said. “Inmates sit on death row for so long, it might just as well be a prison sentence. Might not even make it to my execution, for all I know.”

“That's just it, though,” Aradia said, sitting up. “You wouldn't. Mr. Bundy, I have reason to believe you wouldn't survive to the end of the year, if you went to prison.”

“Why?” Norman said, cocking an eyebrow.

“You haven't just been killing sex workers, Mr. Bundy,” Aradia said, tapping her knee with one finger. “One of your victims wasn't a regular street hooker. She was a woman by the name of Emily Ducott, rebellious daughter of Senator William Ducott. I know for a fact you picked her up, mistaking her for a sex worker.”

A bead of sweat formed on Norman's brow. “...what?” He blinked. “I did?”

Aradia slipped a hand into the flaps of her trench coat, removing a photograph. She leaned over and placed it on the glass coffee table. With a flick of her finger, it slid across, landing in front of the man.

Norman Bundy leaned down and took up the photo.

He distinctly recognized the face in the photo. Remembered where he buried her acid-cleaned bones.

“Shit...” Norman said, eyes going wide.

“The police found Emily's remains in...well, you know where,” Aradia said, shrugging. “Identified her by her dental records. Senator Ducott didn't take the news well. He still hasn't gotten over it.” She looked down at the pistol in her hand, sliding the cylinder out and counting the rounds. With a flick of her wrist, she popped the cylinder back in, pointing back at the man. “He doesn't know who you are now, Mr. Bundy. But he has a lot of grief, and a lot of rage. As well...as a lot of money and connections.

“Mr. Bundy, I have seen the future,” Aradia said, digging through her coat pocket. She removed it, holding her hand palm up. It displayed a set of dice, made from bone. “I have gazed upon the paths stretching out before you. It is not pretty. If you are brought before a judge, your fate becomes a lot more clear. You either return home exonerated, or go to prison. In either case, you have been identified as the serial killer in cases going back eight years. Regardless of whether the idea of Emily's death is connected to you during those proceedings, Senator Ducott will latch onto you as his daughter's killer.

“If you are sent home, Ducott will send men to murder you in your home. Possibly getting your family caught in the crossfire.” Aradia tossed the dice in the air, catching them. “If you are convicted...or possibly during the days when you are in court, Ducott will use his connections – some of which are in the underworld – to put a hit out on you. Huge cash rewards, and/or strings pulled within the prison system, to anyone who can kill you.” She pocketed the dice, frowning. “In which case, you will be surrounded by hardened criminals, with a vested interest in killing you.

“Like I said. If you are arrested and brought before a judge, you will not survive the end of the year.”

Norman swallowed, his heart racing. “What if I ran away?”

Aradia cocked the gun. “Yeah, that's not an acceptable answer, Mr. Bundy,” she said, grimacing. “You leave, and you can just start killing somewhere else. That's not an option for me either.” She shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Bundy, but I'm afraid the best option for everyone is if you die, right here, right now. When I take that poor woman in the shed to safety, there will be little direct evidence pointing to your activities for your wife to discover. Ergo, your family won't even know what you've been doing. I am more than willing to extend them the kindness of ignorance, so long as the murders stop.”

The man sank deeper in her seat, sighing. “...thank you...” he said, shutting his eyes. “...but if I'm dead, my wife will still be left without a husband, and my daughter without her father.”

“Unfortunate,” Aradia said, nodding. “But in the long run, it's better this way. They'll mourn your death, but won't have to go through the emotional...and financial...turmoil of your arrest. The death will come, and go, and despite how much it hurts in the immediate term, they will heal in time. We humans always underestimate the power of Time, in that sense. Senator Ducott, as well, will either move beyond his irrational grief, or latch onto some other serial killer who gets arrested. I'm still debating sending him a notice informing him that his daughter's killer has met justice.” She shrugged again, looking away.

Feeling profoundly tired, Norman drained the last of his coffee. “Ugh...” he sighed, “...so...are you going to kill me now?” His eyelids felt so heavy.

“Huh?” Aradia said, looking at him. “Oh, don't worry about that. I killed you a couple minutes ago.”

“...what?” Norman said, blinking.

“You didn't think you were the only one who could do the poison trick, did you?” she said, smirking. She gestured to the coffee table. “I spiked your cup with an overdose of sleep pills, when you were distracted looking towards the photos by the front door.”

The man looked down at the mug hanging from his fingers. Studied the drops of brown liquid pooling at the bottom.

Oh... _that_ was why he felt so tired.

Aradia rose to her feet, brushing herself off. Returning the revolver to its holster inside her coat, she stretched. “Believe me, it's best this way,” Aradia said. “You'll go more peacefully now, and I won't have to get blood all over your wife's nice floor or wallpaper. Or the upholstery. Crisis averted.”

Norman collapsed back onto the couch cushions, going limp. “...shit...that's it, then?” He yawned.

“That's it,” Aradia said, walking around the table and couch. As she moved, she picked up the framed picture of Norman's family. Standing behind Norman, Aradia handed him the frame. “I'm sorry that this will have to stand in for your family. But if they were here, they'd do foolish things, like try to stop me or call the police...you know how it is.”

The man nodded, lifting the picture to his face. He blinked rapidly, his eyes bleary. The eyelids felt like lead. “Rebecca...Jessie...”

“They are both beautiful,” Aradia said softly.

“They're perfect...” Norman yawned, head lolling back. “They deserved better than me...” He glanced up, eyes half-lidded. “Will you stay with me? I...I don't want to be alone.”

“Of course, Mr. Bundy,” Aradia said, nodding. She placed her hands on Norman's shoulders. “I'll be right here.”

Norman's eyes roved around the room. In blurry vision, he could barely make out the fixtures of his family's quaint suburban home. The television with the pony stickers stuck on the side. The painting of the Italian countryside hanging on the wall. The gnome figurines sitting on the bookshelf. The fine, satin drapes. They bled together, like runny water colors.

His fingers tingled, and his heart beat fast. But...his muscles felt sluggish. A sudden wave of fear swept through him, but...he felt so tired. Visions of the women he'd taken flashed before his eyes, and he frowned. “Do they...really speak to you?” Norman said, in a breathy mutter. “The girls?”

“They do,” Aradia said, squeezing his shoulder. “I'll have a talk with them later. But don't worry about that.” She smiled down at him. “Just think of it as...going to sleep. Which is literally what you'll do, until your heart stops. Then, hopefully, you'll wake up in your next life, and you'll remember just the slightest bit of what we talked about.”

“My...next life...?” Norman said, shutting his eyes.

Aradia nodded. “You've languished in this one, Mr. Bundy,” she said, softly. “I'm giving you a chance to start over. Maybe then, you'll be stronger. For now, I shave away some of your Karma.”

The man nodded, head resting on the soft cushions. In one hand, he gripped the mug, drug-laden coffee drying at the bottom. In the other hand, he gripped the framed picture of his family.

In a moment, he muttered, “...sing me a lullaby...please...mommy...?”

The woman smiled. “Of course, Norman,” Aradia said.

And she sang. It was a thick song, a lullaby in Punjabi. It was off-key in some places, for Aradia was not an experienced singer. She chanted mantras better. But it was a genuine song, for it came from her heart. It was the lullaby she heard as a child.

Whatever its value, Norman Bundy didn't seem to mind. He slouched deeply into the couch, breathing deep.

As minutes wore on and Aradia's song ended, his breath slowed. Through the touch on his shoulders, she could feel his heartbeat wind down.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump.

Thump.

…

Thump.

…

…

…

Aradia released her grip on the man's body, rising to her full height. She stayed very still, watching him.

Stabbing pains of guilt struck her. A gnawing, relentless sadness. She did not suppress it, or dismiss it. Instead, she let it wash over her, breathing in and out.

She pressed her hands together and bowed her head, eyes shut. “Great Shiva,” she muttered, in Sanskrit, “I commend this soul to the Wheel, that death may heal them. Carry them swiftly to the other world, and return them to the cycle. Help them, that they do not tarry, but press onward beyond the veil of darkness. Let this death absolve them a little of their Karma, so they may return to the world less burdened. And forgive me my sin, that I do in service to the Wheel.

“Om Bhur Bhuva svah, Tat Savitur Varenyam, Bhargo Devasya Dhimahi, Ghiyo Yo Naha Prachodayat.”

Leaning down to kiss the man's forehead, Aradia opened her eyes. Her prayers complete, she set to work.

First, she took out the knife Norman threw at her, and cut off a lock of hair from his head. This she tied together with a short red ribbon, placed in a little plastic bag, and labeled it “Norman Bundy, Death February 8th, 2012, 9:38 pm”. She pocketed this bag, for later.

Second, Aradia muttered “Om”, opening herself up fully to the spirit world. She then promptly clapped her hands over her ears, and willed that connection closed. “I know, I know,” she muttered aloud, “this wasn't what you wanted. But Shiva dammit, this is how I operate.” She glared around the room, raising a finger. “He's dead, and I'm going to go home tonight and do a ritual that makes him stay dead. I won't let him become a Wraith, so this is all you're getting! Be happy he died, and console yourself that he's probably in hell...if you believe in that sort of thing. Alright?”

She allowed the connection to open again, and watched things invisible bolt from the room. Aradia sighed, shaking her head.

She was going to have to come back later with something to placate them. Burying ritually prepared objects would probably do it. Ghosts needed Stuff, because the ghosts of Stuff were always scarce.

Third, Aradia grabbed up her mug and carried it to the kitchen. Washing it out thoroughly, she placed it back where Norman had taken it. She also washed the knife the man threw at her, and put that in the utensil drawer. She then removed a bottle of sleeping pills from her pocket, and opened it. Aradia shook a few down on the coffee table in front of Norman, and left the bottle tipped over.

Looking around the room, Aradia nodded in satisfaction, and walked out the door.

Fourth, Aradia made her way to the backyard, hopping over a fence. She moved slow and kept low, working with the shadows around her. All the while, she muttered a prayer in Sanskrit to the goddess Lakshmi. Heading to the back of the yard, she stopped at a wooden shed the size of a sedan.

 _Quite luckily_ , the padlock on the shed door was not quite stuck in far enough, and pulled off with minimum effort. Looks like Norman just “happened” to forget to push the lock in all the way, on the exact night that Aradia most needed to access the shed. “Thank you, Lakshmi!” Aradia muttered under her breath, grinning.

Opening the door, she found what the ghosts told her she would find: the unconscious form of a woman, tried to a chair. She wore a pair of short shorts, and a tank top with exposed midriff.

Running a hand over the woman's arm told Aradia that the woman's blood was full of drugs, and a quick Om told her that the drugs had been affecting her for quite some time. Nodding to herself, Aradia pulled one of her own knives out and cut the bindings.

“Alley Oop!” Aradia whispered, hauling the woman onto her shoulders. “Let's get you back to safety, ma'am. Maybe then, this will all seem like a bad dream.” Shutting and locking the door behind her, Aradia made off with her damsel.

On the way out, Aradia allowed her body to secrete skin oils on the surface of her hands again. Leaving no fingerprints behind was worth its own reward, and she didn't really like wearing gloves all that much.

Setting foot on the sidewalk, Aradia looked either way down the street.

“Whe~ere i~s Carmen Sandiego? Carmen Sandiego! Whe~re o~n earth can she be? Tell me whe-”

She pulled a smart phone from her pocket and hit the screen. “Just in time! I'm on the street with her. Bring the car around, Peter Pan.”

“I, uh, understand,” said the voice, in a faltering tone. “Be there in, uh, not a lot of time...okay?”

A minute later, a beat-up sedan rounded a corner and drove slowly down the street. It weaved deliberately around parked cars. It rolled to a stop at the curb.

The Euthanatos opened the right rear door and carefully draped the torpid woman on the back seat. A blanket sat on the floor, which she took up and covered the woman in. Shutting the door with satisfaction, she climbed into the front passenger seat.

“All set to move, Peter Pan?” Aradia said, buckling herself in.

Tavros Nitram nodded, frowning. He struggled not to look backward. “Yeah...” he said, hands shaking. He forced a nervous smile to his face. “...uh...Carmen Sandiego...”

Aradia Megido grinned wide. “Excellent!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia time! The fact that Aradia is rocking a Carmen Sandiego cosplay is obvious. What you might not know is that her ringtone is [This Song](https://youtu.be/CGufyFt6zQc).
> 
> Also, Norman Bundy is not only a reference to Norman Bates and Ted Bundy, but looks and dresses the same as [Kira Yoshikage](http://jojo.wikia.com/wiki/Yoshikage_Kira), the villain from Jojo's Bizarre Adventure Part 4.


	2. Diksha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In Tarot, Death isn’t just an ending. It’s a transition from one state to another."  
> -Mage: The Ascension 20th Anniversary Edition, p. 51

#### 

January 2004

“Madam...Chetan tells you it's okay to stop mourning.”

The woman clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh Vishnu!”

A little girl stood on the concrete street, market stalls open around her. No more than ten, she looked up at the woman.

The Maid blinked. “He says he loves you very much, and that you were a wonderful mother.”

Tears began to form under the woman's eyes. “You lie!” the woman said, shaking her head. “Horrible child! You don't speak for my son!”

Looking to the side, the Maid paused, then looked back to the woman. “He also says that he wished you would sing Chanda Mama Door Ke more often. He misses your singing voice...”

The woman gasped, covering her mouth. A tear spilled down her cheek.

“And also,” the Maid continued, fingers playing absentmindedly with the hem of her blouse, “he wanted you to know that there's a tackle box full of silverware he collected, hidden in the back of the closet. He wants you to sell them, since he knows how much you need the money.”

Bystanders watched as the older woman broke down weeping.

“...i-it is true...” the woman sobbed, wiping her face with a handkerchief. “W-what they say of you, child...they do speak to you!”

The Maid nodded. Her attention was diverted, and she said, “Chetan wants to tell you not to cry, Madam. It makes him sad, seeing you sad.”

“Hey!”

A man from the crowd of bystanders (which had grown considerably) ran over and approached the Maid. “Stop making this poor woman cry, you...”

He shuddered, grabbing his arm. His teeth began to chatter. “Ah!” he gasped, rubbing the muscles. “Gods above!”

The Maid raised a hand, looking to the air beside her. “It's okay,” she muttered, smiling, “he's not going to hurt me.”

The man staggered back, feeling the freezing cold leave his arm. He took one look at the girl, then put a considerable distance between them.

The weeping woman, meanwhile, stepped slowly to the girl and hugged her. “Ah! Chetan!” she sobbed.

Looking slightly uncomfortable, the Maid patted the woman's back gently. “There, there. It's alright. Chetan hears you.”

After a time, the woman rose to full height, wiping her eye. “Thank you, child. I...it's good, hearing from my son. Tell him I love him.”

“He already knows, madam,” the Maid said, smiling. She bowed, then turned away. No one dared impede her path, though the market was crowded at that hour.

She heard the whispers and saw the glances sent her way, but ignored them. She also saw mothers hold their children close when she passed, drawing them away from her.

It was inconvenient, being a known, infamous medium in a country that, for all its steps towards modernity, maintained a healthy superstitious streak. It was hard, never being able to make friends her own age. It was hard, and no one understood.

It wasn't all bad, though. She looked up, and saw the transparent figure of Chetan float beside her. He smiled, phantom hands rubbing the shadows of rope burns on his neck. 

“...thank you...” he said, bowing his head. “It means a lot to me.”

The Maid nodded, skipping across the concrete. “It's no problem!” she muttered. “What happens now?”

“I'm going to follow my mom a while yet,” Chetan said. “I still worry for her safety.” He frowned. “It's only now, on this side, that I've really noticed how old she's become.”

“Well, if there's anything else you need,” the Maid said, smiling, “just come find me.”

“No, no, I wouldn't want to impose,” Chetan said, waving his ephemeral hands in front of him. “You've already done so much!”

“Okay!” the Maid said. “I'm going to head home now! Bye, Chetan!”

She watched the wraith wave in the distance, as she dashed off down the streets of Moga, Punjab.

Who needed living friends, when there were so many ghosts floating around the city, willing to be her friends? Granted, they were often moody, desperate people. And they often hung out with the Maid because she could do them favors. But she got favors in turn, so it was a balanced arrangement. They told her things no one else could learn, had a wealth of knowledge to impart to her, and went to great lengths to protect her.

No, she didn't think they were just protective because she was the only Medium able and willing to listen to them. No, she didn't think they were a bunch of folks taking advantage of a little girl. What a silly idea!

* * *

“...little one...”

The Maid looked up from the broom, looking around the family kitchen.

A wraith – old man Jaswinder from down the street, who died two summers ago – floated in front of her. His ethereal body shuddered and trembled.

He leaned in with alarm. “...run!”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Ah!” the Maid cried, covering her ears and doubling over. Breathing hard, she whispered, “What was that, Mister Jaswinder?”

“...bad men...” the ghost said softly. “...men with guns...they are here for your...”

“...Mom? Dad!?” the Maid cried, eyes widening. She dashed through the ghost, making for the kitchen door. “Mom! Dad!”

“...little one...no...” the ghost cried softly, waving her back.

But she did not stop. The Maid ran through the door, then down the hall. Her heart raced.

Stumbling around the corner, she froze. “Aaaah!” she cried, stepping forward and falling to her hands and knees.

The Maid crawled over to where her mother and father lay, still as the grave in pools of their own blood. The mother's blue sari was stained crimson, and her father's tan police officer's uniform was stained scarlet.

“Mom! Dad!” the Maid gasped, reached out and touching their faces. They were still warm, yet the muscles twitched not.

“Ugh...this is awkward.”

The Maid's face jerked up, fresh tears forming in her eyes. She gasped.

Two men in sunglasses, cheap leisure suits, and semi-automatic pistols stood over her, looking down at their handiwork.

“You know,” said one, whose long hair was tied back in a ponytail, “your daddy really should have just taken the money.” He pointed his gun at the girl. “Or better yet, kept himself out of our business.”

“Hang on, man,” said his partner, in a buzz cut. “Isn't this that ghost-talking girl?” He leveled his gun on the girl, but maintained a good distance. “Feels cold as the grave in here.” He shivered, turning up his collar. A smile crossed his face, however. “You think maybe she talked to the asshole we took out two weeks ago? Maybe that's how her old man knew how to have the boss up on charges?”

The girl's body locked up, and she moaned in fear and horror.

It occurred to the Maid that telling her father what the ghosts told her might have just gotten him and her mother killed. Realization crashed down on her, mixing with the abject terror she felt, staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

Tears rushed down her cheeks. The Maid whimpered, mouth hanging open.

“You and your superstitions,” said ponytail mobster. He took a step forward, training the pistol at the girl. “But there's nothing for it. She's seen our faces.”

Bang! Bang!

The Maid didn't even have time to flinch before the air rang out, and her chest tingled.

She clasped a hand to her torso, fingers growing wet and warm. A set of dull, stinging pains grew beneath her grasp, and she crumbled to the ground.

As her eyes stared dumbly out, she heard the men talking.

“Alright, we offed the whole family,” said buzz cut mobster. “We gotta go.”

“Can't,” said ponytail mobster. “Gotta find where the bastard kept his notes. Never know if there's evidence from the boss's case lying around.”

The Maid's vision began to swim, blurring like her mother's smiling face through a cloud of cooking steam. Little black dots began forming on the corners of her eyes. She was rapidly losing feeling in her extremities.

“More cops are gonna come any minute, man!”

“Relax! We'll be out before...”

Her vision failing, the Maid's consciousness gave out. Everything went black, with only the sound of muffled talk drifting her to sleep.

* * *

The Maid floated down, sinking in an endless, dark sea.

Bubbles rose from her mouth, buoyed towards a surface far beyond sight. By and by, she hit the sea floor, a small plume of silt kicked up at her landing. As it settled, the Maid allowed the currents of water flow over her.

It seemed so peaceful. Her eyes grew heavy. Perhaps she ought to just...lay there. Let the waves through her ebony hair, and bury her in a thousand years of sand.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The Maid blinked. The seabed vibrated with footfalls. Slowly, she sat up.

A few paces away, a great, white ram approached, water currents flowing through its ivory wool.

It had a set of glowing red eyes, the color of rust. They shined like red stars, cutting through the murky gloom.

Those blazing lights met the girl's eyes, and the Maid felt the ram seeing right through her. And what she saw...was a purity and wisdom speaking of incalculable age. A vast, ruddy flame, shining in the dark from a billion years ago. It ignited her insides, and her heart fluttered. And suddenly, it was the Maid who cast light in every direction, like a lamp. Until all she could see was the red, and the red was History.

For the first time in what seemed like forever, her chest burned, for want of air. The water was smothering, and she gasped for breath that would not come.

In the midst of the blazing red and the crushing pressure building upon her, the Maid heard a voice.

“Come now. Don't let your Atman be extinguished in the black sea. We all die. But your Karma has yet to be paid, girl. Wake up!”

In desperation, she swam up. Though crimson fire blinded her, it buoyed her, heat raising her up. Just as she felt she could hold her breath no longer, she felt her hand breaking the surface.

* * *

“Haaaah!”

The Maid gasped, back arching and limbs writhing on the floor. All she could see was scarlet.

She felt twin sharp, stabbing pains in her chest.

Running a trembling hand over her face, she realized the scarlet she saw was a mass of blood. Pushing herself up, she found herself lying in a crimson pool. Then she looked around, and found that the pool spread out from her, connecting to the bloody pools her parents lay in.

The Maid gasped for breath, heart aflutter with strain, and overbearing passions. Her face was splattered with gore, her hair tangled and matted with sweat. There was a stinging in her chest, and she breathed deep.

A hacking fit overtook her, and she kept herself up on shaky arms as she coughed blood into the puddle.

“What the fuck?”

The girl looked up. Before her eyes stood the two gangsters, standing around the room.

Buzz cut gangster stepped towards his compatriot, a cardboard box tucked under one arm. He trained his gun on the girl, scowling. “How the fuck is this brat still alive?”

The Maid felt cold. A frigid, enervating chill that started in her core – in her bones – and worked outward. Her muscles and chest ached, her throat burned, and her nostrils itched. Itched with the pungent stench of death, and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

Yet, her mind was clear, and alight with a strange purity of purpose. With great difficulty, she pushed herself up, planted a knee beneath her, and rose. She almost slipped on the slick floor – a floor that tasted metallic – but she stood and swayed drunkenly.

“Don't know, don't care,” said the ponytail gangster, who let a stack of papers in his hand fall to the ground. The sheets fluttered in the air. The man's sunglasses were removed, revealing his piercing dark eyes. He raised his pistol. “Just have to put her down again.”

Then his eyes met the Maid's, and he froze. His entire body shuddered.

The Maid looked over at the other man, whose shades had slipped on his nose. That man, too, shivered as the two people made eye contact.

Something in her sight changed. Through the windows of the soul, the girl took the measure of those men. Across their bodies, she began to see a cloying, brackish miasma. It clung to their flesh, and wrapped around their torsos, limbs, and necks. From the crown of their heads, the black masses sputtered and billowed like weighty smoke.

Somehow, the Maid had an idea what the darkness was. It was the weight of their misdeeds. Threads of sin that bound them; great weights hanging on their backs, invading their minds, and choking their lungs.

It was their Karma.

Mind aflame with a terrible clarity of purpose, the Maid raised her hands towards them and clenched her fingers. From where she stood, she grasped at the two men, one in each fist.

She began to pull. Somewhere in the back of her head, hymns sung in Sanskrit came unbidden to her mind. Hymns called forth from a thousand years ago.

The ponytail gangster scowled. “The fuck is th-”

He shuddered, grasping his chest. “Ack!” he grunted, swaying shakily on his feet.

Buzz cut gangster followed suit, trembling like a leaf. “The sh-shit? Ah...guh!”

The two men looked down at their hands, gaping with horror as their hands grew creased, liver-spotted, and bony. Their heaving chests wracked them with choking coughs.

The Maid watched as their faces sagged, wrinkles forming rapidly and complexion graying. Lips grew dry and cracked, and their noses and ears grew. Their eyes sank into their sockets, and lost their youthful luster.

Even the suits they wore suffered degradation. Colored dyes, of blue and lime, faded to browns and grays. Cotton and silk fibers frayed, forming unsightly holes across the fabric, as if assaulted by a thousand invisible moths.

Buzz cut gangster's buzz cut grew out by centimeters, but the hairs grew out gray and dull. The gun and cardboard box fell from his bony hands, and he grabbed at his scalp. Hair came away in clumps, and he let them fall to the floor in horror. “Ah! Man, you gotta help me!” he gasped, turning to his friend and grabbing him by the shoulders.

“AH!” cried ponytail gangster, whose bound hair faded from gray to white. “G-get away!” he rasped, shoving his associate back. In terror, he raised his pistol and tried to fire on his fellow. But when his bony index finger squeezed the trigger, the weapon merely clicked. He watched in alarm as the steel barrel turned rust red in his hand. Squeezing over and over, his efforts succeeded finally in causing the device to snap. The slide popped off, and the main mechanism in his grasp buckled in on itself. “Aaaagh!” he moaned, pieces of metal crumbling in his fingers, showering the floor at his feet with particulate rust.

As the Maid watched this unfold, it occurred to her how little passion she felt about the act of unraveling the men. She considered, pulling on the threads of their Karma, that she really ought to feel rage at what the men did. Or sadness, at the results of their crime. Or fear, at the power she wielded against them. Or satisfaction, at the taking of vengeance. Something. Anything.

Yet with her hands clenched around them, the Maid felt none of these things. Her heart burned with a white, cold flame, while her mind was directed in a pure, singular focus. It was immaculate. Clean. Sublime.

The men staggered on their feet, faces contorted in fear and agony, eyes wide open, mouths gaping wide. Bone white hairs feel from their heads, and the faces grew pale and gaunt. Eyes receded so far in their sockets, they disappeared, leaving only black voids. And their lips shrank back, until they had but rictus grins.

Limbs contorting violently in on themselves, the two men gasped their last, blood-curdling screams. Naked, skull-like faces fell away, flesh dissolving into showers of dust, mingling with the flutter of age-worn cloth threads.

Bare skeletons collapsed to the ground, clattering and shattering into dry, grisly white piles.

Only when the bones fell did the Maid release her grip, staggering back and gasping. “Ah!” Her fingers shook with violent tremors. They felt numb.

With the deed done, her mind turned to the matter of processing it. Waves of emotion washed over her, choking her with a palpable sadness and a biting horror. Gritting her teeth, the Maid turned her eyes from the piles of white, instead looking down at the pool of scarlet.

She clapped her hands over her mouth. “...mom...dad...” she sobbed, fresh tears running clear tracks through the sheen of red covering her face. The man and woman lay where they fell, while their daughter shook in pain.

Help. She needed to seek help for them. The Maid looked to the door, and stepped forward.

Her vision swam. Eyes rolling back in her head, the Maid pitched forward. She was out before she hit the floor.

* * *

“Gah!”

The Maid broke through the surface of a shallow pool, gasping for breath. Arms flailed out, hitting a patch of dry land. She hauled herself over and collapsed on the edge of the pool.

Resting a moment, she found herself breathing heavily. Clawing water from her eyes, she looked around. “...where am I?”

All around were walls and ceilings of natural stone. She was in a cave. A cave full of little pools of water, lit by periodic sconces with candle-topped skulls, and shrouded by thick fog.

Dragging herself from the water, she scratched her head. To her surprise, her fingers struck something hard in her hair. “What?” she said, tracing the hard object sprouting from her head. The Maid turned around, bending over the water, which had already stilled to a perfect mirror.

By the flickering light of the skull candles, the Maid discovered she was clad in a hooded robe. Her eyes were surrounded by dark rings. And her head had sprouted a set of twin ram's horns.

To her surprise, this didn't bother her all that much. She felt almost numb.

“...weird...” she said finally, rising to her feet. Her fingers rubbed her horns, and she wandered down the cave's winding passages.

Stepping blindly, her feet tread through sporadic puddles of water. She waved through fog, navigating from candle to candle. By and by, the sounds of chanting wormed into her ears. Curious, she headed towards the voices.

The tunnel grew narrower, and narrower. With great difficulty, the Maid squeezed through. Step by step, meter by meter. Incense smoke wafted across her nose, instilling in her a singular feeling. A feeling of...nostalgia. And of deja vu.

“As if you've been here before.”

The Maid popped out the other end of the narrow passage, staggering into an open chamber. Looking around, she saw three figures seated in front of her, obscured in the mist.

“...who is there?” the Maid said, stepping forward.

The three figures came into view, their silhouettes sharply focused against the half light. The Maid could see that these figures were not alone, but that dozens of figures sat against walls behind them, in lines reaching back into the fog. Somehow, the Maid knew their number extended far, far into the distance, beyond any hope of reckoning. Upon their lips were mantras repeated forever, since forever.

The figure to her left leaned forward, wafting fog away from her face. That face smiled broadly, skin the color of brown olives, and showing the signs of middle age. She was clad in a vest, and wide white sleeves, of the European Renaissance style.

“I am you,” she said. From her head sprouted a set of ram's horns.

“You are...me?” the Maid said, blinking.

“Everyone here is you,” the woman said, maintaining her broad, eerie smile. “We have lived many lives. You are the latest incarnation of a fundamentally eternal Atman.”

The Maid tilted her head. “We have?” she said. “Are you my last incarnation?”

“Oh no!” the woman said, shaking her head. “I was named Aradia Megido, a long time ago.” Her eyes darted sideways. “I'm pretty sure the girl over there is your last self. Say hello, Damara!”

From the departing mists, the Maid could see a girl older than herself, back leaning against the right wall. Her body was clothed loosely in a Japanese school uniform. The blouse was stained with blood at the stomach height. Her face was covered in eyeliner and blush, both having become slightly smeared.

She took a drag from a cigarette in her hand, then flipped her older counterpart the bird.

“Oh, don't mind Damara!” the middle aged woman said, looking to the Maid. “She's just kind of cranky. She lasted about ten minutes after her Awakening, before she was betrayed by her lover.”

Memories rose unbidden to the Maid's senses. She saw flutters of cherry blossoms, and walls splattered with scarlet. Smelled sweat, tobacco smoke, blood, and a flowery perfume. Heard sweet nothings, whispered in her ear in lilting tones. Felt cold steel in her stomach.

Damara flipped the bird to Aradia again, then sighed. A plume of smoke erupted from her mouth. “...never trust a pretty face...”

The Maid frowned. She looked forward, and the mists parted to reveal a crone.

The old woman sat lotus style on top of a boulder, her back ramrod straight. She was clothed in rough white cloth, wrapped in a loose sari. Her skin was drawn, wrinkled, and the color of tarnished bronze, like leather wrapped tight over thin bones. From her back jutted a dozen arrows.

Her eyes were shut. When the Maid gazed upon her, the crone's eyes opened, revealing clouded eyes. Her forehead opened up, revealing a third eye, the color of dark crimson, that shined. From her gray hair grew the now-ubiquitous set of ram horns.

“...come forward, child,” said the crone, beckoning with a slight movement of her fingers.

The Maid stepped forward, looking up at the elderly woman.

“...why?” the girl said, frowning. “Why am I here? How did I do that before?” She grimaced in pain. “Why did mom and dad have to die?!”

“Everyone dies, child,” the crone said. “Such is the nature of the Wheel.”

“Sniff...the Wheel?” the Maid said, rubbing her eyes.

“Birth. Death. Rebirth.” The crone said, splaying her hands out. “Our bodies are naught but temples, in which burns the Eternal Flame. Our Atman. The Wheel is the endless cycle of reincarnation, and we are shackled to it by the chains of Karma.”

“We are the Ouroboros,” said Aradia Megido, hands in her lap. “We are the Serpent devouring its own tail. We break our back on the Wheel, and cannot be rid of it until we finish eating our own sins. And we have many.” She looked away. “Perpetuating a cycle of revenge...”

“Starting a cycle of revenge,” said the crone, “that lasted a thousand years.”

Damara puffed on her cigarette. “...wrath...lust...”

“Our Karma hangs over our heads,” said the crone, “as it hangs over yours. It is your Karma too. For again...we are you.”

“The Wheel sounds horrible,” the Maid said, frowning. “They've locked you...locked us...into a cycle of pain and mistakes.”

“Pain is inevitable,” said the crone. “It comes part and parcel with living. But Suffering need not be. We suffer when we wallow in our pain. Deepen it. Perpetuate it. The Wheel turns, and life goes on. Both pain and pleasure.” She raised a closed hand. When she opened it, a lotus blossom bloomed in her palm. “This world is hard, illusory, and fleeting in the eyes of the devas. However, when the Wheel is tended, it can be Good as well.”

The mist all around them thickened, casting the old woman in silhouette again. Her third eye shined out through the smoke, that smelled of tobacco and incense. The Maid felt herself melting away.

“That is your duty, young one. That is your Chakradharma.”

* * *

The Maid's eyes shot open.

She raised a hand to block her face from a glare. Blinking, the Maid looked around bleary-eyed.

She lay in a hospital room. The walls were an off-white, and the milky curtains billowed slightly. The Maid could hear the distant sound of voices, from outside a door to her right. Briefly, she spotted a nurse walking past, but the woman disappeared as soon as she appeared. At the Maid's side was an end table, with an empty white vase.

The Maid tried to push herself up, then winced. Her chest burned. Looking down, the skin beneath her medical gown was wrapped in bandages.

Eyebrows rising, she rubbed a hand over her head. When she found no horns, she sighed, relaxing back into the pillow.

Every inch of her body ached. She felt cold. Her eyes wandered sideways, and she found the window shut tight against a torrent of falling rain.

“Tell me, child...what do you think of the death?”

The Maid jerked around, eyes wide. “Who's there?”

In the shadow of the white curtains, two figures appeared. Had...had they been there the whole time?

One was a man of African cast, wrinkled face, and lanky frame. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, but had apparently chosen to don a local top of un-stitched red cloth. His face and scalp were clean-shaven, and a necklace of carved wooden pendents hung from his neck.

The other was a woman, dressed in Western clothing; jeans, a blue blouse, and a tan leather jacket. She was of Indian stock, and a bindi adorned the center of her forehead. Around her waist was a large belt, which bulged oddly in places.

The Maid's fingers fidgeted. “...what did you say?”

“I said,” said the woman, “what do you think of the rain?” She stepped over to the end table, a bouquet of white flowers in her hand. The woman lifted up the flowers, glancing towards the window. “I, for one, like the rain. Source of bounty and destructive force, all in one. And it is the perfect weather for sadness.” She pulled the flowers from their paper wrapping, and placed them into the vase. They were white poppy flowers.

The Maid blinked. “...who are you?”

The woman nodded, standing back. “We're friends,” she said. “My name is Inderjit, of the Chakravanti. This is my associate, Olumide, of the Madzimbabwe.” She rubbed her hands together, bowing. “We discovered you injured in your home, and brought you here.”

The Maid gripped her blanket tight, chewing her lower lip. “...w-what happened to my mom and dad?”

From his corner of the room, Olumide bowed his head solemnly. The woman – Inderjit – frowned.

Her eyes met the Maid's, glistening like marbles. The girl stared deep into those orbs, and knew the truth.

The Maid sniffed, eyes growing moist. Trembling, she sobbed into her hands, tears running down her cheeks. “Why? Why didn't you save them! I know you're magic!” She shook her head.

“We came too late to render aid to your parents,” Inderjit said, nodding sadly. “We are sorry. There was nothing more that we could do. It became a matter of effecting your deliverance to medical aid.”

“...hick...I should have died...I should have died with them...” the Maid sobbed, breath hitching painfully through her damaged chest. “...sniff...I _did_ die with them! Why am I still alive?”

“You passed beyond the door of this world and entered the next,” Inderjit said, rooting around in her pockets. “Then, you came back. You now have a balanced perspective of life and death. On how thin the line is...and the gravity of the division.” She removed a silver coin, and began flipping it up and down in her hand. “For this, you have Awakened your Atman.”

“Why...w-why did you save me?” the girl said, rubbing her red, leaking eyes. “Why did you come to my house?”

“Life...is precious, child,” said Olumide, his voice deep and rich. “It is as simple as that. You were found alive in a den of death. Like a flower growing in the desert.”

“Well...” Inderjit said, tilting her head. “...it's also because we were already looking for you.” The coin landed in the palm of her hand. “We were familiar with your late uncle. He was counted among our number.”

The Maid looked up, eyes wide in surprise despite the tears. “...my...m-my uncle?”

“He was a Wheel-turner, years ago,” Inderjit said. “Your father's brother tended the cycle of life and death.”

“The Wheel...” the Maid said, frowning. “...I had a dream about it, just now. Other people who were me spoke of it. Of Karma, and Chakradharma...”

Inderjit cocked an eyebrow, then looked to her companion. The African man nodded, turning away and muttering prayers while stroking his necklace.

The woman turned back to the girl. “This is good news,” Inderjit said. She looked at her watch, frowning. “Again, I am sorry for your loss. I am sorry...we were so slow in arriving. But Fate dictates what it will. To act against the turns of the Wheel is to court disaster. To invite bad Karma.” She shook her head. “Unfortunately, we don't have time, and you must heal.”

With that, she and Olumide bowed, then backed towards the shadows.

“We, proud Euthanatoi, shall be in touch,” Inderjit said, tossing the coin onto the table. It clattered, and began to spin.

The coin toss distracted the Maid for a brief second. When she looked back – an objection in her throat – the two Euthanatoi had disappeared.

The Maid flopped back to the pillow, grimacing in sorrow. She groaned, rubbing her swollen eyes. After a moment, she looked over at the end table. She blinked.

While no longer moving, the silver coin hadn't fallen. It stood still and erect, having landed and come to a stop on its edge. The silver glinted in the half-light of the ceiling bulbs.

Then, her eyes wandered up, and noticed that a piece of paper was tied to one of the poppy stems. A phone number was handwritten on it in thick, black marker. On the very end, the symbol of Omega was drawn.

 

For what seemed like a long time, the Maid lay still and silent. Indeed, she dared not move, but simply watched the coin on the end table. So afraid was she of the coin falling over, and destroying evidence that the magic she'd witnessed wasn't just bad dreams. That it was real, rather than an illusion.

As she regarded the coin intently, a stray though passed through her mind: the World is an illusion. Consciousness a construct, whereby the immanent divine principle marked the passing of time. The Maid wasn't sure why she thought that. Or maybe...she remembered it.

As the Wheeled turned, the coin did fall. It fell when he doctor appeared, to inform her of what she already knew: her parents were dead. Not surprising, but it still stuck in her heart. Pierced her chest, like the two bullets that cut through her lungs and came out the other side.

The only thing that surprised the Maid was when the doctor said that her “cousin” Inderjit would take her in. That the Maid had no immediate family in the city didn't make it any more possible for her to know how she felt about the development. At the very least, it meant someone else would handle the paperwork.

Then the doctor left, and the Maid was left alone.

* * *

She looked out the window the next morning. The rain had abated, but clouds still choked the sky. A neverending ceiling of gray.

The Maid lay in her bed, nursing the dull throb in her chest. Several times since she awoke in the bed, she saw ghosts drift down the hallways, or fly through walls. She made a point of ignoring them. This proved difficult, as she seemed to see them so much more easily now. Her medium-ship ability, brought into terrible, awful focus. The Maid avoided looked at the ghosts as much as possible.

She desired no interaction with the dead. Nor, indeed, did she feel up to confronting the awful fact of mortality.

Looking out, an hour or two later, she noted how the clouds thinned. Sunlight actually diffused through the gray cover, like through a sheet of tinted glass.

“Good morning!”

“Ah!” The Maid jumped in her seat, whipping around.

A little girl her own age stood in the doorway, bundles of flowers in her arms.

She stepped inside the room, her long black hair waving with the motion. Her Indian complexion was lightened somewhat. Was she partially Anglo? Her wardrobe was casual, but of high quality. She had a black designer t-shirt, and a skirt of green and light blue.

“Sorry for startling you,” the girl said, smiling.

The Maid squinted one eye. “...okay...who are you?”

“My name is Feferi Peixes!” the girl said, grinning broadly with her eyes closed. She spoke in Hindi, but her accent was a little thick. “My family was visiting the city, so I decided to come around to the hospital!” She shifted the bundle of flowers to one arm, then pulled one out. Feferi raised it up to show it to the Maid. It was a Chrysanthemum. “I'm handing out flowers and well wishes to everyone!”

The Maid stared at the flower. She looked to the strange girl. “Why?”

Feferi blinked, confused. “Why? What a silly question!” She smiled. “Because I want you to be well! There's no more to it, but good, honest Christian charity!” Feferi turned to the side and planted the flower into the vase, alongside the poppies.

Upon closer inspection, the Maid could see a crucifix hanging from the girl's neck. Huh...so the girl was a Nasrani? “...but...I'm not a Christian. I'm Hindu.”

“Oh, that's alright! I forgive you!” Feferi said, before giggling. “Sorry, that was a joke. Okay, not really, but...anyway!” A bead of sweat rolled down the girl's forehead, and she brushed it off with her wrist. “Hoo! So, what are you in for? Nothing too serious I hope.”

“I got shot,” the Maid said, frowning. “Twice. Also, my parents are dead.”

The smile fell away on Feferi's face. “Oh no! How terrible!” She looked genuinely devastated, lower lip quivering. “You poor dear! I'm so sorry!”

She grabbed the Maid's hand and raised it to her cheek.

“Ey?” the Maid said, feeling the warmth of the girl's cheek on the back of her hand. “Uh...”

“I'll pray for you tonight,” Feferi said, eyes shut. Was...was she starting to tear up? “Tell me, do you have anyone to talk to?”

The Maid frowned, looking down at her blanket. “No,” she said, “I don't...”

Well, there were those people from the Euthanatos...but they seemed like a dour, hard lot. The Maid couldn't imagine them doing much comforting. She thought...nay, _knew_ they could teach her things, but that wasn't what she needed right now.

Feferi nodded sadly. Placing the girl's hand down on the bed, she patted it, smiling. “Well...I want you to know that you have me.” She frowned. “I mean...I have to go back home in a few days. I live way down south, so I can't be here in person. But that doesn't matter!” She sat up, eyebrows turned in. “Do you have a computer?”

“Umm...” the Maid said, one eye squinting.

“...I'll get you one!” Feferi said. She raised a hand immediately. “I don't want to hear anything about me not needing to do that. When I said Christian charity, I meant it.” Her face softened. “I just don't want to see you go through this alone. So I'll be there for you, even if only through the miracle of modern technology.” 

She fished through her pocket, pulling out a notepad. Placing the rest of the flowers on the edge of the bed, she wrote on a page and tore it out. “Here! It's my email address and pesterchum handle.” She held it out for the girl to take.

The Maid reached out tentatively, taking the paper. “...Pesterchum?”

Feferi nodded. “Oh!” she said, covering her mouth. “I almost forgot! I never got your name!”

The Maid gaped. This strange girl was willing to become her friend – even buy her a computer if needed – before she even knew her name.

The Maid frowned.

She looked back. At the past few days. On that time in her living room, collapsing (twice) into pools of blood. On the endless, black abyss she floated down into. She thought about the yawning expanse of darkness, that she had been delivered into. She thought of the moment in the cave, where she walked through the mists of time, and stood before the ghosts of her past.

The Maid died, alongside her parents. As the person she was, she was already dead. And when she returned, it was changed. All the old detritus burned away. She came back pure and clean. And she tugged on the threads of Karma, reducing men to ashes.

She was not the same person as before. Why should she use her old name? That girl – that stupid, foolish girl – was dead.

Laying there, she searched for a new name to give this strange, exuberant nasrani.

She smiled slightly, extending her hand. “Aradia. My name is Aradia Megido.”

Feferi beamed, taking the girl's hand. “Nice to meet you, Aradia!”

Their eyes met, and Aradia froze.

Through Aradia's eyes, Feferi was bathed in a swathe of colors. Yellows and greens and blues. An aura of color, and Aradia could read their meanings. Idealism, Empathy, Devotion. Moreover, the colors crackled excitedly.

Then, for the briefest moment, Aradia saw more. Feferi's figure was cast in silhouette, and a corona of light flashed behind her head. A shining halo of golden light. It filled Aradia with a profound warmth, just looking upon it.

And in a moment, it was gone. Aradia could still see the aura of colors in Feferi's face, but the shine was gone. She blinked.

Feferi smiled, removing her hand. “It was lovely meeting you, Aradia!” Taking up her bundle of flowers again, she moved towards the door.

It was here that Aradia first noticed the two men in suits standing at the door. Had they been there the whole time? The nodded to Feferi, who returned the nod. The men wore sunglasses, and had serious expressions.

The girl turned back to Aradia and waved. “Sorry! I have to finish bringing everyone flowers!” Feferi smiled. “I'll come back tomorrow, I swear! Bye!”

Aradia overcame her stunned paralysis, smiling and waving in return. “I look forward to it!”

When the visitor and her escort(?) retreated, Aradia sank to the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

That vision of Feferi's aura flashed in her mind, over and over. It stuck in there, impossible to dislodge. What had it been? Aradia felt as though seeing the corona was a subtly different thing than merely seeing the aura. An impression greater and more fleeting than seeing emotions or Karma.

It struck Aradia suddenly, and filled her heart with a sublime awe. She saw the future. The vision of the corona in Feferi's aura was fleeting and indistinct because it wasn't the aura she bore now. It was a mantle she _would_ wear...someday. A warm, golden mantle. Like looking at the sun from behind a great edifice, and feeling its warmth on the skin.

Aradia Megido smiled to herself.

Whatever else happened, she _had_ to keep an eye on Feferi Peixes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the matter of Names:  
> Homestuck is a comic full of characters whose names do not gel with our world. This is true principally of the Troll characters, but others reflect this disconnect to a greater or lesser degree (the Exiles come to mind).
> 
> The easiest way to deal with a Humanstuck story is simply to ignore the irregularity. Don't draw attention to it, and it ceases to be a problem. In most cases in Magestuck, I've opted for this. First names can be chalked up to weird parents (or even to the whimsical vagaries of Fate, that weave themselves in and out of the lives of characters destined for Awakening). And most names have some origin in real life...mostly in the West.
> 
> This is where the matter of our two native Indian characters comes into play. Peixes is kind of Portuguese, and Magestuck's Feferi Peixes lives in Kerala, India, a region historically influenced by Portugal (and, if nothing else, India also has the more recent British occupation to consider). Her family could have picked up the Peixes surname anywhere, so I gave it a pass.
> 
> Aradia Megido, on the other hand, was a bit harder to justify, being a poor, pure-blooded native. Moreover, it seemed to strain credibility that both characters native to India would have non-Indian names. So I used the fact that Aradia had previous lives to...cheat, and in a way that reinforced the idea of her literal death establishing a symbolic death of identity. And a rebirth, as an identity both new and old.
> 
> Magestuck is basically an aggregate of two conflicting motives on my part: the desire to remain faithful to Homestuck, and a desire to make the characters fit the World of Darkness. Sometimes this goes simply, sometimes I jump through hoops. Sometimes I throw my hands up and say "whatever".


	3. Brujeria [1/3] - Shravaka

#### 

October 2010

“Hey...where did you get that soda?”

The two shabbily dressed men stood at the gate, carrying their semi-automatic rifles. Sweat formed on their brows and dampened their shirts, for the night was young, and had not dissipated the heat from the Mexican day.

“Hmm?” said one of the men, taking a sip from his can. His mustache quirked on his lip.

“Your soda,” said his companion, whose face was more clean shaven, though not by much. He was a younger man, and wore a bandana on his forehead. “Were there any back at the house? Because I could go for one.”

The mustachioed man shook his head. “No, ese,” he said, holding up his can, “I brought this one from home.”

“Aw man...” said the younger man, looking out into the flat desert around them. The high adobe walls behind them cast small shadows from the moonlight above. “It's just so hot.”

“Yeah, I hear that. If it's any consolation, my drink is lukewarm.”

“...hey,” said the young man, “did you see that guy who came through here a few minutes ago?”

“The one in the jeep? Yeah, I saw him.” Taking another sip, the mustachioed man sighed. He looked down at the thick shadows at his feet. “I think he's one of the boss's friends. Or something.”

The young man looked away, out into the desert. It seemed to go on forever. “Wonder what they're talking about in there,” he said. “I mean, the boss called everybody back. You think it has anything to do with Los Lobos Blanco?”

His companion grunted noncommittally.

“They've been busting our balls, ever since March,” the young man continued, to himself. “They've been moving in on our territory, killing some of our distributors.” He scowled. “One of my cousins got gunned down last month. I hope the boss declares war on them already, so we can gut the bastards. What do you...?”

Thud. Hiss.

The young man looked down to the ground, at his companion's feet. Soda gushed from a fallen and impacted soda can, spilling onto the desert sand.

“Ghk...ack...!”

His mustachioed companion sputtered and gasped, hands clawing at a thick cord of leather looped around his neck. By the light of the full moon, the young man could see the poor bastard's face turning purple.

“...what the hell...?” the young man breathed, staring wide-eyed. His gaze drifted to the side.

A short figure stood directly behind the mustachioed man, partially bathed in concealing shadow. Her body was thin, and dressed in a maroon hoodie. She held two ends of a long leather whip in her hands, wrapped around the guard's neck. She was shorter than the full grown man, so she planted her foot into his back, for leverage.

Sensing the eyes on her, she turned to the younger man. A skull face looked back at him. Their eyes locked – hers seemed deep and piercing. It sent shivers up the young man's spine. He felt paralyzed; frozen by a mesmeric stare.

The white painted skull's lips parted, revealing a second, inner set of teeth. The figure grinned wide.

Horror rushed through the young man's body. Gripping his rifle, he pointed the barrel towards her. He sucked air into his lungs, a shout primed on his lips.

A hand clapped over his mouth, smothering his cry. The grip was firm, and the skin callused. Yet, it had a certain gentle quality, like a caress.

“Shh...” came a voice directly in his ear. He felt the warm breath brush against his skin. “The Pale Ladies hunt tonight...”

Something flashed in front of the young man's face – a reflective glint in the moonlight – and he felt cold steel draw rapidly across his neck. A scream died in his throat, where the blade cut through it.

The young man shuddered, watching scarlet erupt out in front of him in a grisly spray. He lost all feeling in his extremities, and his vision swam, then faded to black.

A rapidly dying body dropped to the ground. Standing behind him was a figure in a black, flowing robe and an equally flowing, equally black skirt. Under the flaps of her robe, she bore a bandolier full of large, pointed rounds, and a belt laden with pouches. Across her back was slung a rifle, which glinted not in the light of the moon. From her neck hung a necklace, bearing a pendent with the portrait of Santa Muerte – the bony-faced Saint Death.

Her right hand wore a bright red fingerless glove, and carried a hand scythe, dripping gore.

Upon her face was painted another skull, applied in black and white, and a spattering of color here and there.

The Bruja nodded to her companion, who was lowering the guard to the ground. She whispered, “Are you almost done?”

* * *

#### 

Days Ago (But Not Many)

“Yeah, just finishing a text.”

Aradia Megido's thumbs drummed across the buttons of her flip phone. She smirked, then tapped down the last few characters. Flipping the phone closed, she sighed. “Sorry,” she said, “I was talking to one of my friends. She lives back home in India.” Aradia frowned. “She thinks I'm still at home, busying myself with festival work. I hate lying to her, but...”

The Mexican woman nodded, crossing her arms. “I understand.”

Evita Gomez wore a white blouse and cream-colored skirt, which stood out against her deeply tanned skin and dark brown hair. She looked up and shielded her dark brown eyes against the sky. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, “I needed to wrangle my brothers and sisters. Dios de Muertos is in a couple days, so they've been practically feral with excitement. Abuela can't handle them by herself.” She pointed a thumb back towards the adobe brick house. “We can go in now.”

Aradia hopped from the wooden bench she sat at, pocketing her phone. “Excellent!” she said, smiling and following the woman inside. “It must be nice, having siblings.”

“It's a pain in the ass,” Evita said, waving her hand. “You aren't missing a lot.” She smiled. “But I suppose I wouldn't give them up for the world.”

“This is a good attitude,” Aradia said, nodding. “When the Wheel turns, you never know when they'll disappear from your life.”

“Amen,” Evita said, pumping her fist lazily into the air. Leading the Indian woman through her home, she glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of Dios de Muertos...are we still on?”

Aradia grinned broadly. Her hand fished through a messenger bag. “You know it!” she said, pulling a rolled-up stack of papers. “Shall we go to the kitchen to look at these, or...?”

A crowd of children – of many ages – rushed from an open doorway and crossed the ladies' path. They hooted and hollered.

Evita stopped the kids with a raised hand. “Whoa, ninos,” she said, “no running in the house. We were just over this.” She spoke firmly in Spanish.

One of the diminutive figures spoke up. “Come on, hermana!” the boy said. “Can't we go outside to play?”

“Absolutely not,” Evita said, narrowing her eyes. “I told you the streets are not safe right now. The men with guns are on the prowl.”

“The men with guns are always prowling!” objected a teenage girl, throwing a fist in the air. “They never bother with little kids, so long as we stay out of their way!”

“It's not the same right now,” Evita said. “The Cartels are having a turf war. That means a lot of itchy trigger fingers. Even if they don't think you are an enemy – and those maniacs are so coked up that is doubtful – they could get into a street battle, and hit you with stray bullets. So no, it's not safe. Stay inside.”

The whole lot of the ninos moaned, uttering comments of discontent.

“Alright, alright,” Evita said, rolling her eyes. She looked over her shoulder and motioned with her head towards the open doorway. “Move along. Our guest and I need to go into my room and talk for a while. Benito, take your brothers and sisters into the kitchen and keep them occupied.”

The tallest, oldest boy sighed. “Fine...” He turned to the others and waved them towards the kitchen. “Come on, guys. We'll play poker.”

“No betting!” Evita called towards the retreating children.

She and Aradia smiled at them, then crept down a hallway. Coming to a room at the end, Evita removed a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. “Sorry,” she said, smiling weakly, “we'll do it in here.”

The choice of words caused Aradia's eyebrows to wiggle, but she said nothing. She merely smirked, privately enjoying the unintended double entendre.

Evita's room was crowded. A bed sat in one corner, with a low table and seat placed next to it. An old beauty mirror hung from the wall above the table. Against another wall was a dresser. Above the dresser – and in several other places in the room – were hung posters of classic westerns. A very old television sat on another low table in the corner, hooked to a combination VCR and DVD player, apparently second-hand if the condition of the machine was to be judged. When Aradia glanced at it, she spotted a VHS cover for The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly. She spotted its corresponding poster next to the door to the closet.

Inside the closet was an ornate, well stocked shrine, with a large portrait of a skeleton dressed in a nun's habit. Unlit votive candles crowded the flat surface on which the shrine was built, along with numerous photographs. A plate sat in the center of the shrine, covered in dried turnips and candy skulls. Sacrifices.

Next to the door to the closet was a trunk, with a padlock fastened tight on it.

“I love your room,” Aradia said, taking in the full effect. “I'm so often away from my house in Punjab, I never really have a chance to make it my own, you know?” She looked down at the bed. Studied the messy, cast-aside covers. “...Evita?”

“Yes?” the Bruja said, looking up from where she kneeled by the trunk. She fiddled with the padlock, opening it. The box was filled with her rifle, a spare pistol, some _additional_ guns, a couple knives and sharpened sickles, and cartons and cartons of ammunition. “What is it?”

“How have you been feeling?” Aradia said, staring at the bed. She turned to the other woman. “Since the Agama, I mean?”

“The Agama...?” Evita said, tilting her head quizzically. She frowned suddenly, looking down. “Oh. That. I've been...alright.”

“You haven't been sleeping, have you?” Aradia said. She smiled softly. “It's okay if you haven't. No one dies – even ritually – and comes out of it unchanged.”

Evita frowned, staring down at her arsenal. “...I've been having trouble sleeping,” she said quietly. “Bad dreams. It won't interfere with the work.”

The Indian girl walked over and put her hand on the Mexican girl's shoulder. “You don't need to act tough, Evita,” Aradia said. “The Euthanatoi aren't going to revoke your membership card because you feel. If anything, you should strive to feel more, not less. Too much disconnection...too much emotional numbness...leads to bad places. If you have things you want to talk about, you can talk to me. Or with anyone else in the Tradition. That's part of why we're all together: to support each other.”

The woman smiled slightly, placing her hand atop Aradia's. “Thank you,” she said. Shutting the trunk, she rose to her feet. “But right now, I want to talk about the mission.”

“That's fine,” Aradia said, nodding. Papers in hand, she walked over to the table next to Evita's bed. She took a seat, moving the lamp on the desk over and turning it on. She smoothed out the papers, spreading them flat. “Over the last two weeks, my sources have been busy collecting information.”

“Your sources?” Evita said, sitting down on the edge of her bed.

Aradia turned to the woman slowly, mouth expanding into a manic grin. “Ghosts!”

Evita blinked. “...ghosts?”

“You saying you don't believe in the unquiet dead?” Aradia smirked. “'Cause they've been talking to me since I was a little girl. And believe me, the Cartels make _a lot_ of ghosts. Ghosts who want nothing more than to get back at them.” She gestured to the papers, showing hand-drawn maps. “I've had them crawling over the compound of El Camino Onyx for weeks, to the point where they're very certain of this layout.”

The Bruja nodded. “Alright,” she said. “But you know, I could have scoped out the place myself. It would be easy to view it remotely.” She fished through her pocket and pulled out a crystal ball, the size of a tennis ball.

“Indeed you could, Evita, and I expect you to do so in the coming days,” Aradia nodded. “It's best to familiarize yourself with the compound's layout. This was partly an exercise for my benefit – I know less about what we Traditionalists call Correspondence than you do. Moreover, the spirits have told me a lot more than just the layout of the buildings.” Aradia dug a manilla folder from her bag and opened it out in front of them.

Spreading out several sheets of paper, Aradia displayed a series of notes. Photographs and sketches were clipped to these sheets. “As you know, El Camino Onyx has been the dominant force in the criminal underworld in this district for a few years now. But recently, their territory has been encroached upon by a rival Cartel.”

“Los Lobos Blanco,” Evita said, nodding.

“Right,” Aradia said. “What you might now know is that El Camino Onyx is, apparently, an offshoot of Los Lobos Blanco.” She pointed to a sketch of a portly, mustachioed old man with a receding hairline. “They broke off from the parent organization to follow the charismatic leadership of this man.”

“Arturo Barros,” Evita said, scowling. “Everyone in the city knows him. Or, at least, knows of him.”

“It was indeed difficult,” Aradia said, “catching him outside his compound. For all the other major members of El Camino Onyx, I could track where they've gone, and take photos.” She gestured to the other pictures. “Barros, however, seems to spend all his time in the safety of his compound, sending his lieutenants out to minister to his network of drugs, protection rackets, gambling, and human trafficking. But as you said, everyone knows him. My spirits have reported on how basically everyone in the organization idolize him. He's charismatic, shrewd, and commanding.”

“He's a monster,” Evita said, frowning. “A drug lord, slaver, rapist, and murderer. We're going to kill him, correct?”

Aradia coughed into her hand. “I had a talk with the Acaryas, over in the La Calendula Luminoso chantry. I emphasized the severity of Barros's sins, the power he wields, and the potential for this minor inter-Cartel competition turning into a full-blown gang war.”

“And?”

Aradia smiled. “The Good Death has been approved.”

Evita sighed, rubbing her head. “Finally!” she said, sitting back on her bed. “He's had it coming for too long.” She looked sideways. “Before I joined the Euthanatoi, I would have killed him by now.”

“Perhaps,” Aradia said, looking down at her papers. “But we have rules. Those rules are there for a good reason. It's important – for the sake of Justice – that we don't go gunning for everyone we think is evil. Too many unilateral slayings have mistakenly taken out the wrong person over the centuries. Moreover, we must be prepared to give people the chance to reform.”

“I've been cursing that bastard with bad luck for months,” Evita said, frowning. “He's rotten to the core.”

“And thanks to your testimony, and that of the residents of the city (living and dead), I managed to convince the elders of this,” Aradia said. “His Karma cannot be ignored, and he's had plenty of time to change his ways. They have agreed that he must be stopped.” Her smile dropped. “However! There were conditions the Acaryas put forth.”

“What conditions?” Evita said, sitting up. “Barros dies. What more is there to do?”

“Prevent a disastrous power vacuum, is what.” Aradia shuffled through the papers. “One of the Wheel-Turners I've studied with – a member of the Pomegranate Deme – said it best: An Organization is not a Giant, but a Hydra. To expand, it is often said 'cut off the head, and the body dies'. This referring to the idea that, so long as the head of something powerful is removed, the power will crumble.” She frowned. “But when it comes to organizations – criminal empires, terrorist groups, cults, corporations, etc. - it is often untrue. Kill the leader, and the body of members do not die. Someone just rises up to replace them.” Aradia looked over at Evita, meeting her eyes. “Cut off the Hydra's head, and it will simply grow new ones in its place.

“Right now, the Hydra that is El Camino Onyx is set to spring forth three different heads, should Barros perish.” Aradia pointed to the papers on the table, waiting for Evita to lean over.

When the Bruja did so, Aradia pointed to a series of photographs. “Barros is a shrewd man,” she said. “He knows that while the vast majority of his underlings have loyalty to him, his immediate subordinates can taste the power they'd have if he died. So Barros pits his three lieutenants against one another, keeping them focused on rivalry, rather than on teaming up against him. This has served to fragment El Camino Onyx on the managerial level. It's only because of Barros's personal magnetism, and the fear he engenders in his followers, that he keeps the Cartel together. Most everyone has chosen a side. This is a bad thing for us, as it could cause the Cartel to fragment. We trade one large criminal enterprise for several smaller ones.”

Evita pointed to one of the photos. It depicted a man in a market, with a shaved head and bare face, but a scowling expression. “This man,” Evita said, “Cecilio Diaz. He is a brute, and an moron.”

“A loose cannon, yes,” Aradia said. “He's also aggressive, and popular with his men because of his permissive attitude and love of parties. If Barros dies, Diaz will almost certainly make a play for succession. Assuming he succeeds, it will lead to open war with Los Lobos Blanco. Might also lead to civil war with his fellow lieutenants. Either way, the common people will be caught in the crossfire.

“We need to eliminate him as well. While Barros is mired in banal evil, Diaz is a maniac.”

Evita pointed to another photograph. This depicted a man in a restaurant, with long hair tied into a pony tail. “Dario Loyola.” She gripped the edge of the table hard. “He heads the part of El Camino Onyx that kidnaps local girls, and sells them to the States.”

“Human trafficking division head, Dario Loyola,” Aradia said, reading the notes attached to his photo. “He's a wily one. Duplicitous to a fault. The ghosts I sent to spy on him tell me he's been conspiring with other members of the Cartel to act against both his fellow Lieutenants, and Barros himself. He's slimy, and apparently a coward. If he's caught in a fight with the others, he might send his followers into the fray, while retreating.” Aradia stroked her chin. “However, if it came down to him versus Los Lobos Blanco, he might attempt to cut a deal with them. This is less than ideal, but it might serve to bring stability back to the city. If it comes down to only being able to kill two out of three targets, it might be best to let him go.”

“Four targets, you mean,” Evita said, pointing to the last photo. It was a police ID photograph, dredged from the deepest administrative archives, depicting a man with shaggy short hair and a thick brown mustache. “Fito Nieves. He's in charge of the gambling dens.” She looked up at Aradia. “Do we not kill him as well?”

Aradia shook her head. “Nieves is not a target,” she said. “He's not really a good person – he's part of a Cartel, and spent his time before going Cartel full time as a cop on the take. But from what I can tell, he's a reasonable fellow. His only sin is his mistresses. More importantly, he has a paternal attitude towards his men, and his community.”

Evita frowned. “I don't care how many times he sends food to grandmothers,” she said. “Or that he tells his men to steer clear of the schools. He threw away his honor as a police man, and now works in the heart of darkness!”

“He's also the one who has been cautioning against open war with Los Lobos Blanco,” Aradia said. “Honestly, Nieves is better than we could hope for, in terms of a replacement head of the Cartel. He's got enough rapport with the lower ranks – and has been in the business long enough – that he could take the reins of the operation. But only if his aggressive and sneaky competition gets taken out first.” Aradia stared hard into Evita's eyes. “We don't touch Nieves. The others have to die, but he must be left alive. Is that clear?”

Evita narrowed her eyes. “I don't see why you should be using that tone with me,” she said. “I'm five years older than you!”

“And I've been tending the Wheel since I was ten,” Aradia said, her face firm. “Twice as long as you've served the Pale Lady.” Her face softened, and she smiled. “Moreover, I'm an outsider. I'm emotionally removed, so I'm seeing the big picture. Can't you?”

The Bruja scowled, biting her lip.

“I don't like the idea of the Cartel being around and operating any more than you do,” Aradia continued. “But if all the leaders die, we risk breaking El Camino Onyx into a bunch of disparate gangs. Keeping Fito Nieves alive, and putting him in charge, is the best way of maintaining order in the city. And that's as important to keeping the Wheel turning smoothly as making sure the irredeemable perish.”

Evita looked down at the floor, exhaling hard. “...fine. Nieves lives.”

Aradia tapped her cheek contemplatively. “...why the hangup on Nieves being a former corrupt police officer?”

The Mexican woman was silent for a while, then sighed. “...my padre was a police officer,” Evita said. “He was a clean cop. Didn't take bribes, even though it would have helped support the family. Eventually, it got him killed.”

“Huh.” Aradia tilted her head. “You know, my dad was also a police officer, who got killed by criminal elements for doing his job.”

“Really?” Evita said, eyes growing wide.

“Yep!” Aradia said, smiling. “Police were no more wealthy back in Punjab, India. He could have taken money to look the other way. But he didn't. He knew that prospering while others suffered would only compound the suffering of everyone, sooner or later.” Suddenly, she started laughing.

“What's so funny?” Evita said, but she couldn't help the edges of her mouth turn up.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Aradia said, shaking her head. “Hah hah...it's just, it's really weird, how similar we are. We're like two ends of the Wheel, turning around either side of the world, yet so alike.”

Evita smiled harder. “...heh...I guess that is pretty funny.”

Aradia giggled, then turned to the papers on the table. “Anyway, we should study these maps,” she said. “We'll be attacking in a few days. How does the night of All Hallows Eve sound?”

“I think it sounds like a good idea,” Evita said. “I won't even need to worry about walking around in skull paint, since Dios de Muertos will be in full swing.” She leaned over the table, studying the maps.

“Ooh! Ooh!” Aradia said, jumping up and down in her seat, grinning. “Can you paint my face, too?”

* * *

“Heh heh heh heh heh!”

Aradia giggled quietly, sneaking through the brush. Her wide grin stood out disturbingly from her painted face.

She and Evita crouch-walked across a shadowed yard, inching around boxes and in between huge tents. Spotting a pair of patrolling guards, they paused behind a row of tires. The guards were easily tracked, as they bandied small talk back and forth in Spanish. When the men passed, the two Euthanatoi crept on.

Evita pointed to a high guard tower, looking over her shoulder. Aradia nodded.

 

A man stood on a watchtower, slowly panning a search light over the grounds in a predetermined pattern. Every few minutes, he varied his pattern – both as a means of confusing potential infiltrators, and just because he was so _bored_.

Nothing ever happened. No one had the balls to mess with El Camino Onyx. Except maybe Los Lobos Blanco, but the guard in the tower figured they would come in jeeps, guns blazing. It was supremely unlikely anyone would actually try to stealth their way into such a well-guarded...

“Boo!” Aradia whispered, wrapping her whip around the man's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the fact that the movement venerating Santa Muerte has done nothing but _grow_ in the past several years, White Wolf (and their successors in Onyx Path) made no mention of it. They seemed to ignore Brujeria in general, even though Mexico's native magical traditions – a fascinating syncretism of pre-colonial beliefs and Catholicism – is a living, thriving institution among the common people. One that could lend itself to Chorister, Verbana, Dreamspeaker, and, yes, even Euthanatoi characters. The only times that White Wolf talked about Latin America is either when referring to the ancient civilizations (Aztec, Maya, Inca, etc.), or about the Voudoun practices (which are a related but distinct set of movements).
> 
> So consider these three chapters my treatise on the subject, in the hopes that it inspires more players to give such characters a shot.


	4. Brujeria [2/3] - Pana

The Bruja planted her sniper rifle on the edge of the railing. She pulled back the bolt, then fed a single round into the chamber. Click clack. Her eye peered through the sight. Licking one finger, she raised it to the air. Little wind. She couldn't ask for a better night to shoot.

Behind her, Aradia tied a silk rope around the unconscious, gagged guard. “...so...” she whispered, looking up at the woman, “how'd you learn to snipe?”

“My grandfather taught me,” Evita whispered, sight roving across the yard towards the large house in the center of the compound. Studied its thick, adobe walls, and dull red shingles. “Abuelo served in the army, way back. So when my padre died, abuelo and abuela took me and my brothers and sisters in. Abuelo taught me to shoot. Abuela taught me to pray to Santa Muerte for intercession.”

“Your family is amazing,” Aradia said, standing up. She scanned the darkness around them, keeping eyes out for patrolling men. “Sniping is your deal. What should I be doing?”

Silently, Evita fished a hand through her belt, without taking her eyes off the house. She pulled a set of binoculars and handed them over her shoulder. “Spot me,” she said. “I already have a 360 degree view of our immediate surroundings. No one will take me by surprise.”

“Sweet.” Aradia took up the binoculars and looked out on the house. “Now, we wait.”

“I haven't been able to spot them on the outside,” Evita said, “which makes sense. How are we to know when – if at all – they'll come out?”

“Do you see them?” Aradia said. “With more than your regular sight, I mean?”

For a moment, the Bruja said nothing. Then, she touched the pendent on her scapular, with its image of Santa Muerte. She muttered a prayer in Spanish, then adjusted the scope on her rifle.

The walls of the house fell away under Evita's gaze, as did the distance. She saw the dozen or so armed guards milling around the rooms, patrolling the halls, sitting in lounges, drinking beer, and shooting the shit. Scanning each room, she discerned that the layout was just as she remembered it, from Aradia's maps, and from the day before, when Evita camped outside and projected her sight in.

There.

“Top floor,” Evita whispered. “North room. See the balcony on the right side?”

“Yep,” Aradia said.

“They're all there,” the Bruja said. “Barros is at his desk, talking to Diaz, Loyola, and Nieves. There are two armed guards at the door.”

She frowned. “There's someone else. They're pale, and wearing a black leather jacket. I don't recognize them from the files.”

“Must be someone who doesn't come in often,” Aradia said, “if the scouts didn't spot them after all this time.”

“I can't hit them from here, in any case,” said Evita, scowling. “The walls are too thick for the round to penetrate.”

“Hmm...” Aradia hummed, looking out on the building. “...I wonder...”

“What?” Evita said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Just thinking,” Aradia said. “It's possible for even a decently skilled student of Correspondence to move small objects through space.” The Chakravanti tapped the binoculars. “If you can see inside, chances are you can take something out...or put something in. Perhaps, with a little practice and the right invocations to your divinity, you could shift a moving bullet from your barrel to your target.”

Evita paused, pulling slightly away from the scope. She blinked. “...you think I could do that?”

“Oh, I don't know much about space myself,” Aradia said, smiling. “But I know what others are capable of doing, with your level of expertise. Moreover, I know that, like everything else, Space is an illusion.” She turned to the Bruja. “When you put on that costume, you become Santa Muerte, in much the same way that when I perform yogic acts, I become Shiva. Right now, you _are_ Santa Muerte. You _are_ the Pale Lady. You _are_ Death.

“Since when has Death been stymied by walls?”

A bead of sweat formed on Evita's neck. “...I...”

Aradia waved her hand dismissively. “Just something to think about,” she said, turning back to the binoculars. “In truth, everything goes wild once the first gunshot goes off. We can't afford to be experimental right now.”

“Then how do we get at them?” Evita said, frowning. “I don't know if I could pull something like that off.”

“We flush them out,” Aradia said, setting her binoculars down. She sat down on the floor. “Hold on, I've got to center myself.”

“What are you doing?” Evita said, eyes focused forward.

With nary a grunt, Aradia lifted one leg and extended it straight up, knee against her chest, foot pointed towards the roof of the watch tower.

Evita blinked. “...no really,” she said, eyes still forward, “what are you doing?”

“Becoming Shiva,” Aradia said, feeling the energy run up her leg. She closed her eyes, contemplating the Wheel. “...leave it to me...and my friends...”

* * *

Fito Nieves scowled.

“I keep telling you, Celilio,” he said, face growing red, “we don't have the manpower to go head to head with Los Lobos. Not if they decide we're more than a nuisance.”

“And I keep telling _you_ , Fito,” said Celicio Diaz, banging his fist on the oak desk in front of him, “the men won't take this defensive stance forever. They've lost comrades to these bastards. They want blood!”

“Blood is what they'll get if we go starting another damn war!” said Nieves, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “Their blood will run ankle deep in the street! It'll be just like '93 all over again!”

“Oh, '93, '93!” Diaz said, rolling his eyes. “All you ever talk about is nineteen ninety fucking three! You were still on the take! What do you know about what it's like to fight a war?”

“And you were in diapers, you idiot!” Nieves yelled, scowling. “Sucking on your madre's fucking teat! Don't talk to me like you know what a war is! I had to clean that shit up when you were crawling around in your own shit!” He looked over to his other fellow lieutenant. “Dario! Can't you talk some sense into this fool?”

Dario Loyolo sucked ash through a cigarette. Exhaling a thick cloud of smoke, she shrugged. “I don't know, Fito,” he said, “the men are getting pretty pissed about all this inactivity. Ain't that right?” He looked over to one of the guards posted at the door. “Eh?”

The guards shrugged, looking nervously sideways.

They couldn't take their eyes off the pale man in the corner, leaning with his arms crossed. His mouth locked in a bored scowl, his eyes unreadable behind large, black sunglasses.

The man with the ponytail shrugged. “Besides,” Dario said, taking another drag from his cig, “these whore's sons have been cutting into our profits. Even letting them come to us, it's only going to get worse. My last shipment of senoritas got boosted last week. They're probably over the border by now, being sold to some gringos, and lining somebody else's pockets in the meantime.”

“See, Fito?” Diaz said, pointing at Loyolo. “They aren't just killing our men, but taking our product. I lost fifty kilos of coke last month! How soon do you think they'll start raiding your casinos? Huh?!” He slapped his hand loudly on the desk top.

“Cecilio. Fito. Dario.”

The three lieutenants froze, turning to the man behind the desk.

A middle aged, portly man, Arturo Barros fanned himself with his red hat. It exposed his rather expansive bald pate. Barros placed the hat back on his head, then weaved his hands in front of him. “Gentlemen, I appreciate your input,” he said, his furred lip quirking. “Up until now, I've entertained Fito's call for defensive action. I, too, believed that a show of strength would teach Los Lobos to not fuck with us. But as we've seen, that has proven, if anything, to embolden the bastards.”

He smiled. “It's time we went on the offensive. The men want action – they're going stir crazy, from all the waiting. What kind of boss would I be if I kept denying them?”

“Boss...” said Nieves, shaking his head. “...I strongly urge against this course of action.”

“I understand your concerns, Fito,” Barros said, fingers opening a cigar box and pulling one out. “Believe me, the continued vitality and prosperity of my little family is paramount in my mind. But we can only turn the other cheek so long. I didn't carve my way out of Los Lobos Blanco all those years ago, just to have them come in and shit over everything I've built. What _we_ built.”

He chomped off the end of his cigar and spat it to the floor. Bringing up a lighter, he lit a flame and pressed it to the brown stick in his mouth. Puff. Puff. “Now...” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “...I've talked with many of the boys. And I got ideas. Now Fito, I've considered the matter of their superior numbers.” He raised his cigar and pointed across the room, behind his lieutenants. “I've been dealing with our friend over there. Antonio has a few friends of his, that can bring a little more...muscle to bear on our problem. And he's agreed to help us out. Isn't that right, Antonio?”

The pale man in the corner grinned, exposing eerily white teeth. He said nothing, but inclined his head ever so slightly.

Fito Nieves swallowed, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He looked back to his boss, realizing a moment later that his hands trembled.

Arturo Barros chuckled heartily, cigar gripped in his teeth. “Good man, Antonio,” he said, puffing contently. He reached to the side and took up a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass. “With the help of him and his 'friends', we'll have no trouble putting those Los Lobos bastards in their place.” He poured the deep, pretzel brown liquid into the glass. The smell of charred oak and caramel wafted through the air.

The Cartel boss raised the glass. “Gentlemen,” he said, a glint in his eye, “to the coming war. May all our enemies rot.” He raised the glass to his lips.

Eyes going wide, the glass fell from his grasp. He gasped.

“AAARGH!”

Every eye in the room shot to the back of the room, where the door stood.

A smokey, transparent hand reached through the chest of one of the guards. The man stared down at it, mouth agape. His skin trembled, shivering with a cold sweat. “Ahhhh!” he gasped, perspiration forming on his face.

Even Antonio, looking at the scene in profile, looked on in shock. His sunglasses slid down his nose, exposing his eyes. “...what the fuck?”

Suddenly, dozens of ephemeral hands erupted from the back wall and the door, clawing at the air. Two hands passed through the other guard – himself frozen in alarm – and caused him to shudder in surprise.

“F-fuck!” said the first guard, shaking like a leaf.

“Maria...madre de Dios!” said Nieves, rooted in his spot. His fellow lieutenants were similarly paralyzed.

The back wall was a writhing, translucent mass of airy forms. A billowing sheen of smoke and hands.

Then the moaning began.

“Rrrrrrooooaaaagghh!”

Faces began to appear on the wall. Pale, insubstantial faces, mouthing discordant curses with hollow, flapping mouths. Staring with vacant, pupil-less eyes.

“Fuck...fuck!” Diaz barked, leaned as far as he could against the wood grain.

“Aaah...aaa....AAAGH!” went one of the guards, as a second face superimposed itself over his own. “...b-b-b-BOOOOSSSS!”

“...Barrossssss....”

“...Barrosssss...”

“BARROSSSSS!”

“...Diazzzz...Loyolaaaaa...”

The room was filled the ceaseless repetition of names, spoken in broken, haunting tones. Barros. Diaz. Loyola. Nieves. Barros. Diaz. Barros. Loyola. Barros...

“Mother of fuck...” said Antonio, pressing himself back into the corner. Shrinking away from the groping, ephemeral hands.

The two terrified guards – growing bone white and sopping wet from sweat – began to jerk and spasm. Their eyes rolled back in their heads, their tongues lolling. Writhing, they pitched forward, and then stood awkwardly. Their faces were vacant, and contorted in agony.

“Barros!” one of them shouted, mouth hanging open long after the exclamation was uttered.

“What the fuck!” Barros cried, pushing his chair back and rising rapidly to his feet. “What kind of madness is this?!”

The possessed guard seized the rifle hanging from his neck, awkwardly handling it. He raised it up, pointing at the portly Cartel boss. “Diiiiiiiieeeee!”

A hand grabbed hold of the end of the rifle barrel and twisted. Steel bent down like wet clay, groaning harshly.

“That's my mother fucking meal ticket, you shit!” Antonio growled, barring gritted teeth. On the word “shit”, he brought his other fist forward, slamming it into the guard's face.

An audible snap followed the connection of fist to face, and the man crumpled to the ground.

“Get the hell out of here!” Antonio roared to the men behind him, before looking in alarm as a wave of figures paler than him by far flooded forward. Dozens of humanoid spirits – men and women and children – erupted from the wall, spilling over and around Antonio. Like he was a reed planted in a roaring river. “Fffffuuuck!”

“Baaaaaaarrrrrooooossssssss!” the mob moaned, sunken and hollow eyes staring resolutely at the Cartel members. Their hands reaching out like the feelers of an enormous anemone. A cloud of writhing, tortured, bitter souls.

Deep in their bowels, a solid, fidgeting figure pointed the silhouette of an automatic rifle at the form of a flailing man.

Ratta-tat-tat!

As machine gun fire pierced the air above a discordant din of haunting moans, Arturo Barros wasted no time bolting backwards, onto the balcony. On his way out, he heard the sounds of grunts and scrambling behind him. His lieutenants – showing completely understandable terror – had elected to follow him.

They didn't follow him far, as the portly Mexican stopped at the railing of his home's balcony. The black night air was still, yet the unseasonable warmth from earlier gave way to a bitter, piercing chill.

The old mobster felt as though the ninth circle of hell was nipping at his heels, waiting to drag him into the frozen mire, what trapped Satan himself.

“Oh god...” he muttered, not daring to look back. “Oh Jesus...oh god...”

He had to get away. He had to escape. Looking down over the railings, he could see his men scramble in confusion. They rushed towards the building, guns at ready.

“They're still coming!” Loyola shouted, trembling and gesticulating towards the balcony door.

Barros breathed rapidly. Sweat poured down his face, in rivulets. Palms were slick with sweat.

He had to get away. Had to escape. Looking down, he saw the ground. A bit of confidence returned to him. He'd hop over the railings, and drop down. If he lowered himself by his hands, it wouldn't be that far. He could make it. He could...

BANG!

Scarlet erupted from the side of Arturo Barros's head.

* * *

“Direct hit!”

Aradia pumped her fist in the air, binoculars focused on the balcony. “Two more targets.”

The moment the shot left the barrel, Evita dispensed the shell from the chamber. Feeding a new round into the bolt action from her bandolier, she readjusted her sighting.

BANG!

“Miss,” Aradia said, frowning. “Those guys definitely know you're firing now.”

“Santa Muerte...” Evita muttered under her breath, reloading, “...guide my shot.” She aimed again.

Her sight was trained right over the crouching form of Loyola. He was the man, ironically, who she had the best shot on. Aradia would just need to deal. Evita watched him barking orders to his compatriots, and looking around frantically, unsure of where the shot came from.

BANG!

“Hit!” Aradia said, beaming. “He's not getting up any time soon.”

“Seven o'clock!” Evita said, reloading.

“Hmm? Oh!” Aradia said, jumping to her feet. She zipped open her maroon hoodie and pulled out a revolver.

“Who's there!” came a voice from below. “Come out with your hands up, you-”

Bang bang bang!

“AAAGH!” the voice cried, a heavy object thudding to the ground.

Evita trained her scope again. Two men stood before her sight, panicking wildly. Their sights torn between the horrors in front of them, and the sniper in the darkness.

“Our position isn't safe, 'Pale Lady',” Aradia said, crouching down and blowing smoke from the end of her pistol.

“I know, 'Shiva',” Evita said, scowling. “I can get the shot. Cover me!”

Her reticle centered right over Diaz's torso.

BANG!

Aradia checked with her binoculars. “...no good!” she said, “You clipped Nieves instead! I don't see Diaz!”

“Hijo de puta!” Evita growled, reloading. She looked through her scope again. “Damnation!” She frowned, eyes wide. “He ran through the ghosts!”

“Reckless bastard,” Aradia said, peeking over the side. She ducked, a line of gunfire flying over her head, or splintering the wood railing. “Yeah, our position isn't safe! We have to move!”

Evita ducked, letting her rifle hand from her shoulder strap while she pulled a pistol. “The job isn't finished! Diaz is still...argh!” She reached her pistol over the edge and blind fired.

“Agh!” went a cry of pain, followed by a spray of machine gun fire in every direction. Finally, something heavy thudded to the ground, and the gun went silent.

“Diaz is still alive!” Evita finished, checking her magazine. “We need to get into the house, before he gets away! This is easily the worst case scenario, if he controls the Cartel!”

“That is a dangerous plan!” Aradia said, readying her pistol. “Lakshmi guide my shots,” she muttered, then blind fired.

“Agh! Ah! Fuuu-!” Another thud, followed by a hail of gunfire chipping into the wooden tower.

“The mission is more important than our lives,” Evita said. “If Diaz starts a gang war, the entire city suffers.” She fired over the side, then reloaded.

Bang bang! “You make a compelling argument, Pale Lady!” Aradia said, also reloading. “Hang on, I gotta get these guys off us.”

“How will you do that?” Evita said, yelling.

Aradia shut her eyes and whistled. She pointed up with her index finger, then twirled it in a circular motion.

Evita blinked, pausing. “...what did you...?”

Then, the air became filled with the howls of the dead. All the gunfire stopped.

The two Wheel-turners peeked over the edge, and saw that the men posted around them were frozen. Their eyes were all turned in shock towards the house.

Phantoms poured from the building – from its doors, windows, and walls. They roared, filling the air with a haunting din. Men stumbled out the front doors, flailing their hands over their heads.

“Aaaagh!”

“Madre de Dios!”

The men assaulting the tower backed away slowly, then bolted, screaming. Ghosts flew amongst their ranks, and they broke. Some of them fired frantically at the pale spirits, but gaped in horror as it accomplished nothing.

Dozens of men ran through the gates, pale as the moon above, weapons forgotten. The air was cold, and filled with the screams of supposedly hardened criminals.

Two face-painted ladies leapt from the tower, landing on the ground and running towards the house.

“Ha ha!” Aradia chortled, spinning as she ran. “Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot!”

“How did you even do this?” Evita yelled, over the howling wind. The spirits of the dead flew every which way, and a tempest followed in their wake. “I've never seen ghosts before, let alone this many!”

“What can I say? Cartels create a lot of unhappy spirits!” Aradia threw her hand up in the air. A passing phantom reached down and high fived her, his spectral hand passing through the limb. “Ha ha! It was easy getting so many down here! And ever since the last Great Maelstrom, the courts of the dead have been devastated and lawless! It's the Wild West down the Shadowlands!”

“How can they all be here, though?” Evita said, pausing to fire upon a terrified gang member who drew close with a gun. The man dropped to the ground, crawling away with a bloody arm. He looked frantically back at the woman, tears streaming down his face. “What did you do?”

“Me? All I did was thin the Pana just a little bit!”

“The Pana?” Evita said, jumping over a hedge row. “What's that?”

“The shroud between this world and the next,” Aradia said, doing a hand stand on the hedge row and flipping over. “Normally it's pretty hard for ghosts to materialize so much on this side, even with my help. Ha ha ha!” She cackled at a man laying on the ground, who curled into a ball and cowered. “But tonight is different! It's Halloween!” The Wheel-turner threw her hands in the air. “A time between times, when all the witches, monsters, and ghosts come out to stalk the land! Any everybody know it, so they believe just a little more in impossible things! It's the absolute best time to be a Mage! Ha ha ha!”

When the Euthanatoi reached the front door – broken off its hinges from the inside – they pressed their backs against each side. Evita readied her rifle, while Aradia pulled out an auto-loader and popped a fresh complement of rounds into her revolver. She spun the chamber, then snapped it closed.

They leaned there, listening. Aradia shut her eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Her hand traced the leather whip wrapped around her waist.

Evita waited, tracing the bulge of the crystal ball in her pocket. From her cover, she cast herself forth, studying the immediate inside of the building. “...now!”

They dashed around the corner. Aradia kept low to the ground, while Evita hugged the wall. They trained their weapons down a foyer. This led into a hallway, with doorways lining the length.

Everywhere, the moans of the fallen and the cries of the tormented rang out.

Evita stopped. “Wait!” he whispered, raising her rifle.

“I see it,” Aradia said. When the Bruja glanced over at the Indian, she saw a distant, knowing look in her eyes.

The Indian Thanatoic pulled on the whip around her waist, and the length tumbled to the ground. She flapped it, loosening it on the floor. She pulled back, then snapped it forward. “Heeya!”

Brown leather flew forward. At the last second, a man ran around a corner, bearing a shotgun loosely in his grasp. The wisps of ephemeral smoke followed after him. Like a dark tendril, the whip wrapped around the suddenly startled man's gun.

“Mine!” Aradia said, yanked the whip.

“No!” the man cried, the shotgun flying from his grasp. In his surprise, he stumbled to the ground.

Aradia dropped the handle of the whip and caught the shotgun, one handed. Lowering the butt of the gun to the ground, she pumped the action multiple times, until the loaded shells were ejected in their entirety. “None of that, thank you!” she said, smiling. Grabbing the end of the barrel, she pressed her foot to the center of the weapon, and stomped. It bent at a thirty degree angle, and some internal mechanisms popped audibly.

Evita stalked forward, aiming her rifle at the man's head. “Where is Diaz?” she barked.

“Oh god!” the man said, eyes looking back and forth between the two ladies. Occasionally, he summoned the nerve to look over his shoulder, only to turn away. The ghost chasing him – an angry woman in a flowing sun dress, with hair that billowed upward as if lifted by static and wind – loomed large behind him. “Oh Jesus Christ!”

Aradia stalked forward, grinning wide. “Hi!” she said, holding a revolver in one hand and a whip in the other.

“Where! Is! Diaz!” Evita shouted. “Where is he?!”

“Madre de Dios!” the man said, clutching his head. “Santa Muerte!”

“Yes! We are!” Aradia said. “You have been naughty, sir! So we're playing Good Saint Death, Bad Saint Death!”

Looking between one woman who scowled at him, and one who smiled in a disturbingly creepy fashion, it was evident from the trembling man's face that he didn't know which witch was which. “...oh god...I'm s-sorry, Santa Muerte! I'll change my ways! I'll never peddle drugs again! I swear!”

“That's good!” Aradia said, leaning forward, still grinning. “Remember that promise. We'll hold you to it, and know if you break it!”

“Where is Diaz?!” Evita shouted again, pointing the end of her rifle within centimeters of the man's face. “Answer me, Cartel scum!”

The man broke down crying, throwing his hands over his head. Shaking terribly, he pointed over his shoulder. “M-m-main hall! Where the stairs are!”

“Thank you!” Aradia said, motioning for her partner to move. As Evita stalked past, Aradia stepped around the man. She shot a glance to the phantom behind him. “Watch this guy, will you?”

“Madre de Dios!” the man cried, curling into a ball and sobbing. The spirit at his back hovered over him, chilling the air in the hallway with her very presence.

 

The wide, tall room was littered with upended chairs, broken bottles, burst bags of cocaine, and blood-splattered bodies.

When the Thanatoics ran in, they looked around at the devastation. Evita's boot splashed into a puddle of scarlet. In her mind's eye, she saw visions of the previous few minutes.

A crown of men, stricken with fear of the unquiet dead in their midst, opened fire wildly into each other. The air was thick with the pungent stink of blood, the noxious stench of cheap rum, and the acrid smell of gunsmoke.

Evita's face scrunched up in horror and disgust. “...Dios...”

“Okay, this got a little out of hand,” Aradia said, frowning at the mountain of corpses. “Although in this case, their itchy trigger fingers are just as much to blame for their deaths as the ghosts. And the ghosts, arguably, deserved their vengeance.” She looked around. “So...where's Diaz?”

“Here!”

A body flew across the room and landed hard on the floor.

“Ah!” cried Evita, backing up.

“Oh hey!” Aradia said, smiling. “There he is!”

Indeed, it was Diaz. His skin was pale as a bone, his face bruised, and his throat torn open and bloody. He stared up at the high ceiling with vacant eyes, his face contorted in agony.

The Thanatoics gazed upwards, across the room from the hall doorway.

A figure stood on a balcony, behind a wooden railing. He wore a pair of jeans, a blood-splattered black leather jacket, and a hole-ridden white t-shirt. His sandy blond hair hung down to his shoulders, framing his impossibly pale skin.

He clutched Fito Nieves's shoulder in his right hand. The mustachioed gangster grimaced, clutching his bleeding arm.

The man called Antonio smiled, his mouth and cheeks dripping wet with scarlet gore.

Below, the Thanatoics braced themselves, clutching their weapons.

“Heh...” grunted Antonio, licking his teeth slowly. He savored the taste. When his teeth parted, they showed his long, sharp fangs. “Evenin', ladies...”

Evita scowled. “...Vampiro...”

“You know...” said the vampire, looking away, “...me and my friends were cutting a deal with that fat bastard back there. It would have been all kinds of fun, tearing apart some other bastards. Being able to basically run El Camino Onyx would have been a nice bonus. Skim some bank off the top. Use some of the idiot kine as raw muscle. Take whatever sex slaves we wanted as food. We were so looking forward to it, I volunteered myself to catch this meeting, instead of going to the Pallo Grande this year.”

He scowled, ripping his cracked sunglasses off. “But then you bitches show up and ruin everything!” Antonio clutched the shades in the palm of his hand and squeezed. It shattered easily. “And you summoned a fuck-ton of fucking ghosts, so I'm gonna have to track everyone one of these stupid fuckers down and bury them in a shallow grave!”

Under the vampire's tight grip, Nieves gasped. “Aaaah!” he cried, pawing weakly at Antonio's hand. “Hija de puta!”

“Whoa...” Aradia said. A perverse smile crept to her face. “...you mad?”

“Just a little. That's a chore and a half.” Antonio shook his head. “I mean, it's not like I give a shit about the Masquerade,” he said. “But the local Archbishop is gonna have my ass if I keep leaving loose ends like this. Plus, I...am really fucking pissed.” He grinned, the shadows on his face framing him in a menacing manner. “So fuck it!”

Evita clutched her rifle, gritting her teeth. “Come down here and say that, bastardo,” she said. “A monster like you shouldn't be allowed to live!”

“Gladly!” Antonio said, tossing Nieves into the wall behind him.

“Ah!” Nieves cried, sliding down to the floor. His back left a dent in the plaster. “Chupadora...traficante de puta!”

The vampire leapt clear over the wooden railing and dropped to the floor. His black boots landed hard on the wooden floor. Antonio rose to his full height.

Aradia and Evita readied themselves, pointing their guns towards the monster.

“...heh...heh heh...hahahahaha!” Antonio cackled. His arms spread out to either side.

All around the room, the shadows...rippled.

Like smoke, darkness billowed in the corners and under tables. Like serpents, shadows writhed and slithered beneath the cold bodies of the fallen. Like ants, the blackness in every nook and cranny crawled across surfaces and into the open.

Sweat formed on Evita's brow. She trembled, seeing darkness move in...unnatural ways.

Aradia remained as she often was: smiling like a loon.

Antonio's body shuddered, and the shadows crawled over him.

His face was covered in obscuring shadows, causing his bright, fanged teeth to stand out. “Trick...or...treat!”


	5. Brujeria [3/3] - Chela

#### 

August 2006

“Tell me of the vampire, Uncle.”

The wraith floated above the hard wooden floor, in the center of a circle drawn in flour. His ephemeral body – his Corpus – was clad as he was in life. Black jeans, a black jacket adorned with rich floral designs in silver thread, a loose dark shirt, and topped with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat.

A bullet hole gaped between his eyes. It matched several on his chest. Once they wept scarlet. Now they had nothing left to weep.

Devdan stroked his chin, running fingers over an eternally well-groomed beard. “The vampire, niece?” he said. “Such is a dark and forbidding topic.”

“Death is a dark, forbidding topic, Uncle Devdan,” Aradia Megido said, sitting cross legged before the flour circle. Two well-polished revolvers sat between them. “Will you send me forth into the night to dispense the Good Death, not knowing its dangers?”

The ghost chuckled. “I suppose you have a point, my dear,” he said in thick Punjabi. “Very well. There are many things to know of the undead, and never enough time to learn. Indeed, I know more than most mortals, and I know precious little.

“To begin, the Vampire is a wretched being, trapped between the spokes of the Wheel. They are not dead, yet not wholly alive. They parasitize the living. In some ways, they would make the Jainist marvel – they do not need to kill anything for their sustenance.” Devdan shook his head. “But they so often do, by accident, malice, or carelessness. They have the capacity to walk alongside the Devas – some few are purported to have achieved enlightenment of a sort – but far more often tread the path of the Asura. Sometimes literally, in the case of the Infernalist. Even the dead are not immune to the wiles of the Demon.”

“If they walk the line between life and death,” said Aradia, “would they not merit study? Perhaps there is much we can learn from thei-”

Devdan held up a hand. “Hold, dear niece,” he said, smiling, “Wiser and more experienced Thanatoics than you have thought the same thing. It is for many of their efforts that the Chakravanti and our allies know as much as they do. But many others of these Wheel-turners have perished, become thrall, or descended to the state of Naraki in their study of the blood-suckers. Have your tutors told you the story of the Idran?”

“No,” Aradia said, shaking her head nervously.

“Make sure to ask about it,” Devdan said, “for they doubtless know more than I. Only know that they were a group of Wheel-turners who thought to use Necrourgy and Necrosynthesis to transcend the cycle. They became vampires, and blighted the world ever after. Learn their mistakes well, that you are not tempted to follow them. Understand?”

“Yes, Uncle Devdan,” Aradia said, frowning.

“Now, I'm not saying Necrosynthesis is forbidden,” the ghost said. “Our ranks would not be where they are if they allowed taboos to chain them. But such work is only for the experienced and the careful. Commit your focus to orthodox Siddhi for the time being.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Now, about the vampire,” Devdan said, stroking his chin. “There are two principle varieties of blood-sucking fiend: the Western Kindred, and the Eastern Wan Kuei. Though the Wan Kuei unlive much closer to us, they are less numerous than the Kindred. As such, I shall discuss the latter first.

“Politically, the Kindred are much like Mages – as you are, and I was – in that they fragment themselves into many varieties. Unlike the Mage (and the Wan Kuei for that matter), their principle division is hereditary. Once made, their lineage dictates their power. But from there, there is another principle division: Sect. The many breeds of vampire gather for ideology as well as for 'family'. The largest majority of them belong, like Mages, to two Sects.

“The first, I am told, is called the Camarilla,” Devdan said. “They are feudal, giving allegiance to Elders of great power and influence. These leaders dictate rules in their domains, the first and foremost being the rule to protect the existence of vampires from discovery. It is for this reason that they are deplorable, for they reinforce the Consensus that shackles our Arts. They weave themselves into the fabric of society to do this, gaining great influence and control, such that they would rival the Technocratic Union. However, their saving grace is that their very need to protect their existence leads them to fight against their Asura urge.”

Devdan held up a hand. “They are, by no means, _Good_. But they are mindful of themselves, for they risk becoming naught but beasts should their Karma grow too black. They cannot be trusted...but they can be negotiated with. Engage them only when necessary, and always assume duplicity on their part. Understand?”

Aradia nodded. “Why do we not slate them for the Good Death?”

The ghost chuckled. “Would that we could, had we a thousand more Wheel-turners, and no other enemies. The vampire is an infestation. A parasite that burrows into Brahman, and will not let go. Perhaps, when we have won the Ascension War, we may turn our attention to them. For now, we do what we can, and don't pick fights when we're already embroiled in others.

“The second sect,” Devdan said, holding up two fingers, “is more vile. They call themselves Sabbat, after the witch-fires of our Verbanae allies. But even the Verbanae spit at the thought of them. For, unlike the Camarilla fiend, the Sabbat vampire makes no pretense of humanity. They are monsters, and revel in their monstrosity. Second only to the Infernalist, they are Asuras incarnate. All the savagery of an animal, all the cunning and cruelty of a man. Pray you do not encounter them, but destroy them utterly if you do. The Wheel can ill afford their barbarism.

“Two breeds make up the bulk of their number, and are unfortunately easy to identify. One shapes the flesh of themselves and others like clay. They are not satisfied with the shape the Wheel incarnated them in, and choose abominable forms instead. The other controls the elemental darkness. All the better to match their black hearts.” The ghost stared down at the girl, scowling. “If you encounter either, be prepared to either run, or bring all your Siddhi, Spirit Pacts, and Aspects of War against them. You can afford no less. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Aradia said, looking down at the floor. She frowned, contemplating this information.

“There is one last thing,” Devdan said. “You will find the Kindred everywhere, including here in India. But while they are distributed as they like, the Camarilla is strongest in the 'developed' nations.” Devdan used finger quotes, scowling. “They are so much like the Technocratic Union, it hurts.

“The Sabbat's black, un-beating heart is based in _Mexico_. Now, as for the Wan Kuei...”

* * *

#### 

October 2010

Evita Gomez froze, sweat pouring down her skin. The colored face paint ran, just a bit.

Her heart raced. The darkness writhing before her eyes. How it reminded her of that place. Calling visions unbidden of the place beyond the mortal coil. The Shadowlands, where she so recently Sojourned.

She gritted her teeth, and raised her rifle.

“Evita?” Aradia said, beside her. She cast a brief glance towards the woman.

“RRRRAAAAGH!” the Bruja screamed, squeezing the trigger.

BANG!

A spray of scarlet erupted from the vampire's back. But the man – wreathed in animate shadows – did not flinch.

He laughed. “HA HA HA HA HA!” Antonio waved his arms.

From the shadows behind her, a black tendril shot out and grabbed Evita by the neck. 

“Gah!” she gasped, eyes going wide. She clawed at the tentacle, as it pulled her back.

“Evita!” Aradia cried. Gritting her teeth, she leveled the revolver at the vampire and fired. “Let her go!” she yelled, bullets popping out.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Antonio raised an arm, blocking his face. He grinned. A moment later, the holes in his arm ejected the bullets. They clattered to the floor.

Nearby, Evita gasped impotently for air. Her vision swam, her body dragged farther and farther back.

Pawing desperately at her belt, she removed her sickle. Evita held it in her right hand, the hand covered in the red, fingerless glove. Reaching back, she swiped blindly (for she could “see” just fine), slicing through the inky blackness.

She staggered forward. “Hhhhugh!” Evita gasped, clutching her throat. Behind her back, the tendril fell away, and dissolved.

Scowling, the Bruja pulled the rifle from the shoulder strap. Holding its barrel up, Evita inserted the handle of the sickle into the bayonet slot. Seizing the weapon with both hands, she wielded it like a great scythe. She had become Saint Death.

“Argh!” she cried, charging towards Aradia. Her weapon sheared through an arm of darkness that stalked the young woman.

“Thanks!” Aradia said, looking over her shoulder. She extended her whip back, wrapping the end around the leg of an overturned chair. “Hah!” she cried, throwing the chair at the vampire.

Antonio sneered, back-handing the thrown furniture. It shattered into splinters, and he charged forward. 

“Brrraaagh!” he snarled, throwing a punch. The two women jumped to either side, and Antonio's fist hit the ground.

Snap!

The wooden floorboards gave way beneath the vampire's fist, shooting up splinters.

Aradia attacked with her whip, smacking the vampire across the back.

“Rrragh!” Antonio growled, throwing up his hands.

A massive, black cloud erupted from his body, coating everything within five square meters into absolute darkness. Sound came muffled, only the low thrum in the ground passed through.

Aradia coughed, covering her mouth. She strained her eyes to see.

She shuddered. The young woman felt the harsh blow to come, and jumped back. But she jumped too late.

A fist slammed into her chest, sending her flying backwards. “Aaaagh!” she cried, fighting to stay on her feet. In her mind's eye, she predicted another blow.

 

Antonio smiled, ready to press his attack on the blind, helpless woman. 

She seemed like some kind of necromancer, if her command of petty phantoms could be believed. But it didn't quite make sense to the vampire. The bitch smelled too alive, and all he knew of necromancers were of those quite dead. The Giovanni, Samedi, and those enigmatic Nagaraja.

Were there not others? Some group that began with a 'C'. He was almost certain the Sabbat had some of those among their number, Antonio didn't really know. Surely if he asked some of their blood magicians – the Kolduns, or the Serpents of Light, or even some renegade Tremere, if he could find them – they might know what magics the common Kine could wield.

Probably nothing of note. They were just cattle, after all.

He stepped forward, raising his fist. Because of course, his own darkness was no impediment at all to his sight. Clenching, Antonio was a moment from striking out, with all his potent strength.

That's when he felt a blade slicing through his flesh, severing the hand at the wrist.

“AAAARGH!” he roared, clutching his stump. Antonio jerked around.

The other woman. The one who fancied herself a grim reaper. She readied her scythe, and swung a second time. Antonio evaded just too late, and the metal scraped across his chest.

He hissed, the sound dying in the gloom. Ducking another swing, he ran to the side, hoping to lose her in the all-encompassing darkness. But to his surprise, the woman tracked him again.

The Beast inside him raged. To allow himself to be put on the defensive. By a worthless bag of blood, no less! It was an intolerable humiliation. Snarling, he stepped forward, raised his foot, and kicked – roundhouse – towards the bitch's painted face. The Beast was in agreement with the plan, and they struck out in one, satisfying motion.

A satisfying crunch – of boot meeting skull – did not occur. Antonio's eyes widened as the woman ducked cleanly his kick, pulling her rifle-scythe back. As he tried to return to steady footing, Antonio received a bash from the butt of the woman's gun, right to the face.

In that moment, he felt the lash of a whip, wrapping around the ankle planted on the ground. It yanked, pulling the vampire's foot out from under him.

“Argh!” he cried, crashing to the ground. “What? What...argh...what the fuck is happening?!”

 

This was Complete Bullshit.

Aradia backed up in the darkness, narrowly avoiding tripping on a dead body on the floor. Steadying herself, she knew that this whole Darkness thing wasn't going to work. Aradia and Darkness needed to have a divorce, stat. Especially since Darkness had taken to asphyxiation play, and – cough, cough – Aradia wasn't into that.

She returned the whip and revolver to her belt for the moment. Aradia couldn't hardly breath, and nor could she get a word in edgewise. She'd have to try something else.

Everything fell away. Easily done, since she couldn't hardly see or hear anything. She pushed distraction away, and centered. “...Om...” She spread her arms out wide.

Aradia clapped. Instead of sound, light erupted outward.

A flash cut through the black, pushing the smokey darkness away. It gave her a meter of breathing room (literally). 

“...Om...” she hummed, more resolutely. Aradia clapped again, and again a silent flash rang out. The barest edges of the other combatants could be seen, as could some of the corpses at her feet.

“Om!” Aradia said, clapping and flashing a third time. The entire room was bathed in light, and the darkness was banished. “Aditi, Mother of Mothers,” Aradia said, holding her hands together in prayer, “I praise you for delivering me from bondage, and birthing the holy sun!”

Across the room, Evita turned her face away, shielding herself from the sudden influx of light. At her feet, the vampire did much the same, hissing.

The Bruja blinked. Profuse sweat poured down her face, and she gritted her teeth. Her entire body shook violently; what uncovered skin could be seen had become pale.

“Rrragh!” she screamed, loosing a desperate, terrified cry. Evita raised her scythe high, then swiped down.

“Bitch!” the vampire barked, extending the naked stump, where once his hand protruded, away. The sleeve on his jacket fell over the stump, and all at once a tendril of darkness shot out from the shadowed spot. It hooked onto the railing of the balcony above, and he yanked.

Just as the blade came down for his head, Antonio sent himself flying away. The tip of the sickle bit into wood, burying an inch deep. The vampire sailed over the floor, and slammed against the wall.

“Nnnagh!” Evita said, eyes lit with a terrible fury. She yanked the scythe from the floor, and charged again. “Bastardo!”

“Evita!” Aradia shouted, fumbling to reload her revolver. “Wait!”

The vampire lashed out with the tendril on his arm. When the woman dodged it, he used the opportunity to seize his severed hand, where it had fallen to the ground. It was whipped towards him by his shadow tendril, and he caught it in his remaining hand.

By this point, Evita advanced on him. “Monstruo,” she yelled, pulling back her scythe, “cazar mi pueblo no más!”

In the moment before her strike, the two's eyes met.

The vampire's mouth twisted into a predatory grin.

“ **Freeze** ,” Antonio said, staring firmly into the woman's eyes.

And, to her surprise, Evita froze.

Her eyes widened – slowly – for she could not bring herself to move. A terrified breath escaped her throat, as she stood with weapon poised over the hated undead.

“Evita!” Aradia said, snapping the loaded cylinder back into her revolver. A cold chill ran down the Wheel-turner's spine. She scowled, looking at the vampire and starting to run forward. “Get away from her, you-”

Antonio took one glance at Aradia, then turned back to Evita. “Woman,” he said, “ **kill your friend**.”

“...Evita...?” Aradia said, stopping, pointing her pistol at the vampire. She looked at the older – but less experienced – Wheel-turner.

Choking, Evita turned on Aradia. “...ah...” she whimpered, frowning. “Ah!”

Aradia slapped her forehead. “Son of a...”

Evita charged Aradia, weapon ready.

The charge was spotted a mile away, and Aradia back-stepped beyond the scythe's reach. “Evita, please,” Aradia said, holstering her revolver. “Stop.”

“Ugh...I...can't!” Evita cried, pressing her attack. Her face was contorted in horror, wincing with every blow she attempted. Swipe. “Sorry!” Swipe. “Sorry!”

“I'd prefer you do – ack!” Aradia ducked, then jumped back. “...you do less apologizing, and more fighting the command!”

She frowned. When Evita charged again, Aradia charged as well. She grasped the rifle with both hands, forcing it up. The two women met, faces mere inches from each other. “Shiva dammit!” Aradia groaned, struggling against the older woman.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Evita cried, trying to pull her weapon back.

Nearby, Antonio rose to his feed. Pressing the severed hand to his stump, he grinned. “Heh...” Stolen blood flowed into his hand, and the flesh knit together. The digits jerked and popped. The vampire flexed his hand, feeling returning.

Standing by, he watched the fight a moment. Then, his eyes turned towards the ground. To the many corpses littering the floor.

Aradia grunted, twisting the other Wheel-turner around. “Come on, Evita!” she said, “This kind of corpse magic is nothing! Pray to the Pale Lady to return your volition!”

Evita struggled, pushing and pulling at the rifle. “...ah...I'm trying!” she cried, frowning. She started muttering under her breath.

She threw a knee up at Aradia. Evita gasped as Aradia blocked it with her own knee. “I'm sorry!” Evita said, face paint running terribly with sweat. “I can't!”

Aradia sighed, looking at the woman. The Bruja was panicking. In the back of her mind, Aradia put “mental focus” on the list of subjects the Shravaka needed to practice.

The Indian girl pushed back, letting go of the rifle. When Evita came at her again, Aradia used both hands to chop at the Mexican woman's wrists.

“Ah!” Evita cried, losing grip on the rifle.

Aradia caught the impromptu scythe, and threw it to the side. With her other hand, she pulled the whip from her belt.

Evita threw a half-hearted punch, but Aradia brushed it aside. Frowning, Aradia curved her leg behind Evita's ankle, then shoved her in the chest.

“Wh-wh-wha!” Evita cried, stumbling backward. Her heel hit a corpse – the corpse of the exsanguinated Lieutenant Diaz – and she fell backward. “Ah!”

Running forward, Aradia threw the end of her whip around both of Evita's wrists. Pulled tight, they bound her.

The Wheel-turner didn't stop, however. As her less-experienced cohort landed on her butt, Aradia dashed for the wall, braided leather trailing behind. She planted a foot on a table strewn with scattered cocaine, using it as a step in another jump. She hit the wall behind, then kept moving.

Aradia ran up the wall two...three...four paces. At the height of her run, she pushed out against the wall. Spinning in the air, Aradia vaulted over a wooden support beam in the ceiling.

“Ack!” Evita cried, Aradia's weight on the line yanking her arms – and then the rest of her body – into the air. “Mierda!”

The young woman swung down, landing and hanging off the handle of her whip. She stood face to face with Evita, who was stretched to the point of barely keeping her toes on the ground.

“Ow, ow, ow!” Evita said, grimacing. She tried kicking at Aradia.

The young woman brushed the foot aside, frowning. “Sorry,” she said. “Hang on a moment.”

One hand gripping the whip, Aradia stretched her right leg back, and her right arm over her head. She sucked air, eyes shut. When she opened her eyes, Aradia smiled. Extending two fingers, she jabbed out, tapping Evita on the forehead.

Right in the Ajna chakra.

Evita gasped, clasping her eyes shut and flinching all over. Her entire body shuddered.

Then she opened her eyes, a single tear running down her face. Evita went limp, shoulder and head sagging. “...ugh...”

Aradia grabbed the whip with both hands and lowered the woman slowly to the ground. When Evita flopped to the floor, Aradia removed the bindings. “Sorry about the wrists,” she said.

Standing at full height and frowning, Aradia ducked. Her hands rose over her head, grabbing the fist that just missed her crown.

“Rrrrra- Huh!?” Antonio growled, gritted-teeth fury dissolving into surprise.

With one motion, Aradia grabbed the vampire's bicep, and used it as leverage to throw him over her head.

Antonio had put enough force behind the punch that, when diverted, he flew several feet into the nearest wall. He smacked into the surface – upside down – and dropped to the ground. “Shit!” he said, lower body pitching forward, so he landed on his face.

Evita pushed herself up, rubbing her forehead. “Ugh...what did you do?” she said groggily, shivering.

“In know what I'm not doing, right now,” Aradia said, frowning. She clenched her fists. “Playing around.”

The vampire scrambled to his feet, snarling. “Fuckin' bitch!” Blood – a fresh coating of it – dripped from his chin.

Aradia cast a wary glance to the corpses littering the ground. She was technically surrounded by the monster's food source.

Shadows began to billow off Antonio's body. From the folds of his clothing, he sprouted four arms of darkness. “RRRRRAGH!” he bellowed, firing everything at her.

The young woman scowled. “Om...” she said, arching her back. Rolling one shoulder back, Aradia extended one hand. She stirred it into the cloud of darkness. Imagined the energy running through her body.

Instead of enveloping Aradia, the shadows were drawn to her hand. Sweat soaked her back, and her muscles ached. She reached over and down with her other hand, twisting wrists, her hands locked into claws. The cloud twisted in the air, drawn towards a single point. Even the tendrils – formed of tangible anti-light – were ripped from their shadowy moorings and pulled in.

She clapped her palms together, smothering the dark.

Antonio stared, wide eyed. “...what the hell?” he whispered.

Aradia breathed in. Breathed out. She opened her eyes, then narrowed them at the vampire.

Opening her palms, she revealed the darkness inverted into a flash of resplendent light.

“AAAAAAARGGH!” Antonio roared, covering his face. He flailed his arms, stepping back.

When the light faded, Evita looked over her arms from where she lay on the floor. “...madre de dios...”

Aradia straightened to her full height, having pulled a combat knife from her boot. She pointed it at the vampire.

Antonio, hunched over, blinked rapidly through scarlet tears. He scowled.

“No more of that,” Aradia said, assuming a relaxed, balanced combat stance. She turned sideways, the knife hand pointed towards him. “Come.”

The vampire roared, charging.

In her mind's eye, she saw the attack a second before it happened. Left hook. Dodging right, she caught the vampire's wild swing by the wrist with one hand. In a motion too quick to see, Aradia sliced across the man's elbow, cleaving through black leather. The metal drew out with a pop, the barest bit of blood coming away. She jumped away.

“Rargh!” Antonio swiped with his right arm, then looked down at his left. It hung uselessly at his side. “Hrrgh? What did you do?” Not waiting for an answer, he raised a foot and kicked.

Again, Aradia sidestepped, jabbing her free fist into the back of his knee. With a single motion, she sliced the knife across the back of his ankle.

“Wragh!” Antonio growled, stumbling back. His knee burned with pain, and he found difficulty standing on his foot. He limped back. “Fucking bitch!” He gritted his teeth. “This is nothing!”

His limbs popped audibly. In a moment, he planted a now healed foot on the ground.

“I can keep cutting,” Aradia said, face hard. “Longer than you have-”

For just a moment, their eyes met. Aradia's eyelids widened.

Antonio smirked. “ **Stop!** ”

Aradia's hard demeanor broke...into a smile.

“No. **You Stop.** ”

And it was so. Antonio's smile faded, as he looked deep into those glassy orbs. His body seized up.

He couldn't move. All his body could do was vibrate. Shake with a steadily building rage.

The Wheel-turner walked around him. She planted the knife into the vampire's heart, from the back.

“GAAAH!” Antonio gasped.

Aradia planted a boot onto the vampire's back, and kicked him. Antonio fell to his knees.

Evita stared at the display. “...is it over?” she muttered.

“No,” Aradia said, circling around to the front of the vampire again. “I sent his business back at him. He'll break free in a minute.”

She pulled the revolver from her holster.

“What are you going to do?” Evita said, staring at the gun. “Bullets do not kill the vampiro.”

Aradia smiled slightly. “Not with that attitude.” She began to spin.

On her heels, she rotated. Throwing her arms out to either side, she twirled. Slow at first, then faster. And faster.

“Lakshmi,” Aradia said, beginning to spin the revolver around her finger, “grant me true aim.”

Where he knelt, the vampire seethed. Blood flowed through his atrophied veins, though not without difficulty. The shriveled blood-pusher in his chest was burst, making the flow slow. Vitae traveled to his arm, and the muscles at his elbow knit together.

Aradia spun faster. “Kali,” she said, shutting her eyes, “grant speed to my limbs.”

Through force of will, the vampire reached over his shoulder and ripped the knife from his back. He hissed, gritting his teeth.

A true whirling dervish, Aradia spun still faster. The revolver twirled rapidly in her hand. “Rudra,” she chanted, “grant my arrows the force of falling stars.”

Aradia Megido had become the Wheel.

Antonio rose to his feet, snarling. He charged.

“Aradia!” Evita cried. She covered her mouth with her hand.

Aradia opened her eyes.

Stopping on a dime – both her body and her weapon – she pointed her revolver towards the target. In a blindly fast speed, she squeezed the trigger, fanning the hammer repeatedly.

BangBangBangBangBangBang!

Though the vampire loomed large over her, six bullets tore through him like paper. They spread out. One shattered his right knee, and another his left. One shattered his right elbow, another his left.

His snarling, frenzied face dropped as one pierced through his skull, right between the eyes. He felt intimately the crack of bone in his head. The last bullet blew through his heart.

Great sprays of scarlet erupted behind him, the greatest being the burst from his heart. The floor was bathed in his Vitae. A shower of scarlet.

The force of the six shots completely arrested his forward momentum. Instead, he wobbled on his feet, then collapsed to his broken knees.

Antonio swayed there, stunned. Paralyzed. He couldn't even think.

Evita Gomez gaped. “...”

Aradia held the pistol to her lips and blew the smoke away. In Sanskrit, she muttered, “Shiva, please forgive the violence I have committed. And which I will shortly commit.” She looked over to Evita. “Evita. Hand me that bottle of rum?”

The Bruja blinked, then looked around the floor. At her side, she saw a half full bottle of rum. Somehow, it hadn't shattered with the earlier violence. “...right!” Evita said. She tossed the bottle over. “Here.”

“Thanks!” Aradia said, catching the bottle with a smile. She looked over at the pacified vampire. “Vampire,” she said, frowning, “you are currently trapped, unable to take your place in the movement of the Wheel. You have eschewed whatever dharma Fate had for you, but have instead walked the path of the Asura.” She closed her teeth over the cork and yanked it out. The overpowering smell of rum wafted over her nose. “Woo! I mean...for the good of the Wheel and your own eternal soul, I grant you the Good Death. May you find Moksha in the next life.”

The vampire's eyes widened. Once again, he couldn't move. Antonio had no idea what this crazy witch was on about, but he had an idea where it was going.

“Agni,” Aradia muttered, in Sanskrit. She pressed two fingers to her solar plexus, eyes closed. “Fill my belly with the Eternal Flame, that I may purify the Karma holding this Asura back.”

She fished through her belt, while belting back a swig of rum. Filling her mouth – wow, was rum a powerful drink – Aradia removed a lighter.

Antonio's fearful vibration intensified.

Click. Click. Foom!

Aradia held the lighter up and blew, spraying rum through the tiny flame. Instead of a small burn, a huge plume of fire shot out from here face, two meters long.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” Antonio screamed, his body lighting up like a bundle of dry twigs beneath an onslaught akin to a flame thrower. He flailed his arms impotently, then fell over on the ground. “AAAGH! AAAAAAH!” He writhed on the floor, dead flesh cracking and blackening.

Her attack spent, Aradia spat drops of rum from her mouth. “Ngh! Nnllah!” She stuck her tongue out, face scrunched up. “Nnnyah! Someone should have told me rum tasted so awful!”

Evita rose to her feet, wobbling. Her eyes focused on the flaming heap that once was a man. She watched it let loose its last, pained spasms, before settling. The Bruja waved smoke away from her face. It stank of ash and charred meat. Already, Evita could see the black and cracking bones.

She crossed the room, picked up her rifle, and turned to the younger woman. “That...that was...”

“Hmm?” Aradia said, looking up. She pressed a water bottle to her lips and took a swig. She swished the liquid around, then swallowed.

“That was incredible!” Evita said, face lighting up. “That fire! That...spinning gun move! Where did you learn that?”

Aradia smiled. “I learned it from my uncle,” she said. “Family is the best.”

Evita smiled, nodding.

* * *

“Hijo b-bastardo...de un perro!”

Fito Nieves crawled across the floor, settling in the hallway leading to the boss's room. Ex-boss, really. Barros was dead.

Funny. As the former Mexican police officer made his way back to that room – the one so recently haunted by the unquiet dead – he found himself of mixed feelings about Barros's death. On the one hand, Nieves knew the man for years. Ever since he took bribes from the man, back during the days when Los Lobos Blanco ruled the city, albeit indirectly. The two had worked together for so long, before and after Nieves went criminal full time. It was because of their history that Barros likely abstained from full retaliation as long as he did.

On the other hand, Barros was kind of a dick. And that was coming from a man who took bribes and ran underground gambling dens.

Nieves groaned, pressing his hand against the bullet wound on his arm. He didn't really know what he intended to accomplish. For all he knew, the office was still invested with ghosts. 

A weight fell upon Nieves's chest. Ghosts not only existed, but could intimately remember their former lives, and how they ended. A sobering realization.

Then again, better the ghosts of the past, perhaps, than the monsters and Brujas of the present. He hadn't heard any gunfire or screams for a while, so he hoped that whoever won would forget about him. Take the cocaine and run. All he needed to do was hide, patch his arm, and hope for all this Dias de Muertos nonsense to go aw-

“Where do you think you're going, Nieves?”

The man froze. He looked over his shoulder.

Two woman – painted as skulls – stood over Nieves. One of them looked terribly serious. The other bore a wide, toothy grin. The latter was far more disturbing. All the more, because she smelled of blood, gunsmoke, and the grave.

He swallowed. “...S-Santa Muerte...”

“Exactly,” Evita Gomez said, aiming the rifle at the man's head. “We are Death, come to bring justice and balance to the world.”

Nieves sighed, looking to the ground. “Santa Maria,” he muttered, “Madre de Dios. Fine...kill me.”

Aradia looked sideways at her companion.

Evita stared at the man. Finger poised on the trigger.

She sighed, lowering the rifle. “No. You will live.”

The man blinked, looking up in surprise. “What?”

She turned to leave, then stopped. Looking over her shoulder, she shot the man a grave look. “Do not misunderstand, _escoria_ ,” Evita said, narrowing her eyes. “Death comes for all, sooner or later. Your Fate is pregnant with more work ahead of you. Santa Muerte leaves you your life...for now. But remember what happened here tonight. Remember...that the Dead are always watching El Camino Onyx.”

Evita stalked away, down the hall. “What I can give – Mercy – I can also take away.”

Aradia looked after her fellow Wheel-turner, then turned down to the man. “I think she likes you,” she said, smiling.

Nieves's mouth hung open. “...I...eh...uh...”

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Aradia said. She grabbed the man by the shoulder and flipped him over.

“Ah!” Nieves said, clutching his wounded side. “W-what are you-”

Aradia pressed her hands together. “Om...” she said. She twisted herself into a yogic pose, stretching her arms behind her back. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Uh...”

The young woman jabbed out with two fingers, poking the man hard on the chest. In the Anahata – the Heart Chakra.

“Ah!” the man bellowed, grasping at his chest. Nieves felt a tingling throughout his body.

Suddenly, the wound on his arm felt warm. It burned, but not in a bad way. A smooth, tingly feeling, rushing around the hole.

Pop!

The bullet lodged in his arm flew out, and he could feel the skin closing up.

Nieves gasped, looking down at his arm. The pain was gone, and the flesh unmarred. As if the wound never happened.

He looked up, but the young woman was gone.

Death had exited the building. Their work there was complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I try to adhere to the Classic World of Darkness metaplot where I can, it's my right to alter it as I see fit. As a means of creating mystery, exploring ideas the original game developers never considered, and simply to alter the world according to my own personal taste. But more than anything, I do it for a very important reason: to create room for more potential stories.
> 
> It's for this reason that the noticeable alterations to the metaplot start here in earnest. Namely with the Cappadocians.
> 
> Only Vampire: The Masquerade fans will really care – Mage or Homestuck fans are likely to be ambivalent – but in this timeline, vampiric Clan Giovanni never rose up and destroyed their progenitors, Clan Cappadocian. There was no diablerie of Cappadocius – in fact, he disappeared before it could take place, and hasn't been seen since. I always found it a silly idea that any purge could be 100% successful, and any official insistence of same is laughable.
> 
> The reason why the Giovanni are populace among the Kindred to the point of overshadowing their predecessors is entirely because they _out-bred_ the Graverobbers. Cappadocians in this timeline never really got over their fear of their founder, so they were hesitant to Embrace progeny, lest that whole Feast of Folly thing happened again. The Giovanni had no such compunctions, instead possessing far greater ambition. As such, between this and raw attrition, the Giovanni overtook the Cappadocians in numbers, until only Elders and Methusalahs remembered how it used to be. The status quo was reversed, in a quiet, organic manner.
> 
> The Cappadocians that Antonio referenced, then, are those Antitribu who joined the Sabbat out of fear of their founder. You know, for the aforementioned Feast of Folly. Again, if you're just here for Homestuck and/or Mage, you don't need to worry about this largely ancillary detail. It's just a matter that always bugged me personally.


	6. Kalananda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Wheel's relentless spin is a curse and a comfort. It impedes rapid change but it blesses the Tellurian with a chance of renewal."  
> -Tradition Book: Euthanatos (Revised), p. 71

#### 

June 2011

>   
>  \-- apocalypseArisen [AA] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--
> 
> AA: i was told by a friend to contact you  
>  AA: so hello mr strider  
>  TT: Excuse me, but Mr. Strider was my cheesy attempt to connect with the kids today.  
>  TT: Call me Dirk.  
>  AA: that sounds fine dirk sir  
>  TT: You're killing me, kid. But I'm glad you got my message. Your name is...Aradia?  
>  AA: that is the sobriquet i go by these days  
>  AA: the old me is dead so i decided to let her sleep  
>  TT: Cool. Okay, getting to the point, I knew your uncle Devdan, when he was alive.  
>  AA: i thought your name sounded familiar  
>  AA: ive been in contact with my uncle for the last few years  
>  TT: Seriously? I guess I called on the right Euthanatos. How is the old guy?  
>  TT: Aside from dead, I mean. Man, that sounds really weird when I type it.  
>  AA: he is not doing terribly  
>  AA: anymore that being trapped between one spoke of the wheel and another is inherently undesirable  
>  TT: Sounds rough, being a spooky ghost.  
>  AA: it is a condition i am working with my uncle to resolve  
>  AA: if i can help him settle all his old debts and destroy all that fetters him to this world  
>  TT: Cool. That's good to hear. I guess.  
>  AA: what was your relationship with devdan  
>  TT: Gotta admit, we weren't really bros. Dude was way older than me. He was an Indian who wanted to be a cowboy, I was an American who wanted to be a ninja. Our interests never intersected, so we never hung out much.  
>  TT: In retrospect, I really should have. But then the bodies started hitting the floor, and didn't stop until everybody but me and my aunt were gone.  
>  TT: Well, that and Swooping Gull. Never did find out where he wandered off to...  
>  AA: if its any consolation my uncle has nothing but good things to say about you  
>  TT: He does?  
>  AA: well except that he hoped you put some of your violence behind you  
>  AA: its a demanding responsibility administering death  
>  AA: one he doesnt wish on anyone  
>  TT: Yet, you follow in his footsteps.  
>  AA: needs must  
>  AA: unfortunately 0_0  
>  TT: On another topic, there was a reason I wanted to get in touch with you. And it looks like you have the ability to help.  
>  AA: whats that  
>  TT: There's this guy I know, who wants to talk to a ghost.  
> 

* * *

“Dad! We're going swimming!”

Paul Egbert waved out at his son John, smiling. His boy ran off laughing towards his three friends, towards the waters of the bay. It didn't really matter which direction they went; on the island, every direction led to an infinite expanse of beautiful blue.

It took some getting used to, the idea that his estranged, late uncle Jake had a private island in the middle of the Pacific. That it sported its own towering laboratory, with geothermal power, teleport pads (correction: Transportalizers), and an absolute, inviolate guarantee that no Technocrats would ever show up. That the island was so remote, in fact, that Transportalization was the only practical method of reaching it.

Then again, it took some getting used to, hearing John call up to him from ground level, while Paul stood several stories up at a window. That his son was capable of such miracles, and more besides.

“You are lucky, Mister Egbert, to have such a son.”

“Without doubt,” Paul nodded, looking down at the retreating crowd of teenagers. “Then again, I considered my son a treasure even before his...gifts manifested. I couldn't be more proud.”

“Glad to hear it. I think I've got everything set up here. Mind drawing the blinds?”

The man acquiesced, sighing. Sunlight diminished, the room was bathed in a cool shadow. He turned around, feeling a profound guilt at what he was doing.

God forgive him.

“You don't need to feel so bad, Mister Egbert.”

Aradia Megido sat before a complex mandala, drawn on the floor in white chalk. She wore a plain, serviceable brown fedora (so she gained back points in Paul's book, lost from the fact that she freely practiced Necromancy).

All around her, relics collected by Uncle Jake stood sentinel; suits of armor, mounted mummies, and stuffed game animals. Incense sticks burned on a ceramic dish, the smell wafting over Paul's powerful nose. It was a heady sensation. Coupled with the low light, and it cast a dark mood on the proceedings.

This strange foreign girl, with her thick accent, piercing gaze, and giddy demeanor disturbed Paul. She couldn't be more than a couple years older than her own son, yet she already traveled the globe, summoning the dead, and pillaging tombs. In fact, that is exactly what she said she had been doing, before Dirk called on her. Digging through a tomb in Egypt, alongside someone from something called the “Pomegranate Deme”. Hence, the hat, as well as the safari jacket draped over a chair in the corner.

Aradia patted the silk pillow to her left, smiling softly. “I take full responsibility for today's proceedings, if it makes you feel better.”

Paul sighed. Dirk had called on Paul's behalf. She'd agreed to cross vast distances, and had already set everything up. It would be rude, making her do all that for nothing. Like it or not, Paul was committed.

He crossed the room, skirting the edge of the chalk circle and sitting down. Paul waved away a particularly thick plume of incense smoke, and got comfortable. Legs crossed, he looked down at the mandala. “...so...what happens now?”

“As I recall,” Aradia said, riffling through a cardboard box set between them, “there were two deceased you wished to attempt contact.” She pulled out two sacred urns; taped closed, to protect against unexpected toppling.

“My mother, Jane Egbert,” Paul said, “and my wife, Sarah.” He pointed to each urn in turn.

“Very good,” the young woman nodded, holding them up. “Which would you like to attempt summoning first?”

The man scratched the back of his head. “...I know my mother is a ghost...” He frowned. “...I don't know, though...”

Aradia smiled softly. “How about we start with your wife first?” she suggested. “It should be easier to bring your mother around. If your wife persists as a wraith, she'll miss you terribly.”

Paul nodded, adjusting his hat. The prospect of meeting Sarah...it seemed so unreal. He wasn't even sure he actually talked to his mother. The circumstances were...odd...

Gingerly, the young necromancer placed the urn in a place set out for it on the mandala. Sitting back down, she clapped her hands together. “Okay. Ready?”

“As I'll ever be...”

“That's the spirit!”

Aradia breathed in, breathed out. Inhale, exhale. She closed her eyes. “Om...” she said, dragging out the sound in a long, resonant hum.

She began to mutter a mantra. A soft, measured chant, spoken in an almost sing-song tone.

For the life of Paul, he couldn't place the language. It was all Greek to him. Every so often, though, he heard snippets of words he could almost make out. “Sarah Egbert”, of course, since she was calling out to Sarah. “Brahma”, “Vishnu”, and “Shiva” recurred a few times as well, and the occasional repetition of “Om”.

They sat in place for a number of minutes, the only sound heard being the furtive mutters, and the sound of uneasy breathing. Paul always found the silence of Jake's island soothing. But now, with naught but the little necromancer's speech for company, it seemed so eerie. Pregnant with an oppressive weight.

It impressed upon Paul, once again, the knowledge that this was a line he ought not cross. His heart raced, and his head swam. Conflicting impulses ran through him: the moral imperative to stop the ritual before it went too far...and the building, aching _need_ to have it work.

He was about to speak up, when Aradia stopped. Looking over to her, Paul saw the young woman open her eyes and frown. She pressed her clasped fingers to her lips, then shut her eyes again.

Breathe in. Breathe out. She began her mantra again.

Paul looked forward, staring down at the chalk drawings. He rubbed his nose. The cloying scent of incense left the room stuffy.

A thought occurred to Paul: what if the girl was a fraud? Certainly, he had first-hand experience with what could only be described as Magic. Space folded in on itself. Single punches that hit several men at once. A boy that waded through a hail of gunfire and came out the other side. His own son, commanding the wind. Magic, Science, Miracles...whatever he wanted to call it, it was real.

But that didn't mean _everyone_ claiming magic powers was telling the truth. Maybe they were lying. Maybe they were mistaken, assigning greater significance to what is actually mundane. Maybe they were mad. A certain amount of skepticism was healthy, even in the face of the impossible. Right?

Could the dead actually be summoned? Could this girl be right? True, Dirk Strider vouched for Aradia's expertise. But even he could make mistakes, couldn't he? What if all this was a waste of...?

“Please stop doing that.”

Paul jumped, looking over.

Aradia frowned, her chanting ceased. “I know it seems silly, Mister Egbert,” she said. “But your Doubt is making this harder than it has to be.”

The man swallowed, frowning.

She smiled. “Have faith, Mister Egbert,” Aradia said, turning back to her work. “I know for a fact that it's one of your cardinal virtues.”

Paul looked away, head dropping.

He prayed to God, though it was difficult. How does one phrase the request that the almighty endorse an act of necromancy? In the end, he asked for forgiveness for his transgression, and for the strength to accept that the world does not need to conform to his own expectations.

 

A few minutes passed, and Paul grew restless. Sitting cross-legged, his foot was starting to fall asleep. Despite himself, he was growing impatient. Did summonings usually take this long? For all he knew, it could take hours of chanting.

Suddenly, Aradia stopped, doubling over. “Mmrrrgh!” she groaned into her lap, rubbing her face with her hands. Sitting up, she frowned. “I'm sorry, Mister Egbert. I might be doing something wrong. Forgive me.”

Blinking, Paul looked down at the young woman. It occurred to him that, regardless of the truth of the matter, _she_ believed in what she was doing. Believed enough she was frustrated with herself over failure.

How many times had he felt that same frustration? In the boxing ring at college. In the middle of exams. In the office...out of the office. The frustration of losing his job, not too long ago. That self-doubt, when courting John's mother.

The man smiled. “It's alright, Miss Megido,” Paul said, adjusting his hat. “It happens...I suppose...”

Aradia sighed, scratching her head. “Hmm...hold on.” She reached forward, picking up the urn within the bounds of the mandala. “Do you mind if I try your mother?”

“Sure,” Paul said, shrugging. He watched the urns get swapped out.

“Okay!” Aradia said, facing forward and clapping her hands together. “Let's try this again!”

She shut her eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Aradia began her mantra again.

 

Within five minutes, something happened.

The smoking incense – long burned down to nearly the end – flared to life. Plumes of gray smoke rose up, caught in an un-felt current. They spiraled into the center of the mandala.

“...what the...?” Paul whispered, eyes watching in surprise.

What little light filling the room dimmed further. The cloud of smoke rose and spun in the center of the mandala. A tall, writhing, gray tornado.

In seconds, the smoke took shape, and lost its dull gray hue. It brightened, shifting into a blue luminescence. The column broke off appendages, which grew more defined. At its very crest, the featureless mass formed a face.

Aradia stopped chanting, and looked up. She smiled.

Paul blinked. “...mother?”

The transparent shade of an elderly Jane Egbert floated above the floor.

“Hello, Paul!”

“Mother!” Paul said, leaning forward. A small smile formed on his face.

“Do not enter the circle, Mister Egbert,” Aradia cautioned, holding up a hand to him. “It's there for a reason.”

The ghost giggled quietly, watching Paul frown. “She's right, you know,” Jane said. “What if I was a demon, pretending to be your mother?”

Paul's frown deepened. “...oh...”

His mother waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, don't fret Paul,” she said. “I'm me. Probably.” She looked down at her spooky ghost body. “Besides, you couldn't hug me if you wanted to.”

The man settled on his pillow, frown fading. He sighed. “...I've missed you so much, mom.”

“I missed you too, son,” Jane said, smiling. “I see you and John managed to get to safety.” She looked around the room. “I'm afraid I don't know where this is. It seems...oddly furnished.” Jane cocked her head to the side, mouth twisting quizzically.

“It's uncle Jake's house, actually,” Paul said. “The one on the Pacific island. Jade is hosting us, while she and John and her friends enjoy themselves.”

The ghost's blank eyes widened. “...Jake, huh?” she said. Jane smiled. “My brother, you did well for yourself.”

“You really haven't seen him around...well...?”

Jane shook her head. “Afraid not. If this is the Pacific, I won't have had a chance to find it. The oceans Over There are great black wastelands. It's difficult navigating it, unless you have some ghostly galleons to ferry you across. Although, knowing your uncle, he probably wouldn't be happy sticking around in one location. He'd treat the Shadowlands as one huge adventure, especially given how...disorderly everything is.”

“The old Hierarchy still hasn't rebuilt itself?” Aradia asked.

“No,” Jane said. “Those winds – that Maelstrom – destroyed everything. They're still picking up the pieces. Doesn't help how much the winds still howl, though not as much as before. A ghost can actually travel around...not that there's much to visit.” She looked pensive. “Have the winds died down for you folk?”

Aradia closed her eyes, shaking her head. “It still rages. The Avatar Storm...”

“Such a shame.”

Paul looked back and forth between the two. “Uh...” he said, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. “I feel there's a whole lot I'm missing. What's an 'Avatar Storm'?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with, Mister Egbert,” Aradia said, smiling softly.

The man scratched his head, but shrugged. “...mom?”

“Yes, dear?” Jane said.

“Have you seen Sarah?” Paul said. “On the other side, I mean?”

Jane hesitated, opening her mouth, then closing it again.

Aradia coughed into her fist. “Mrs. Egbert, before we attempted to summon you,” she said, “we tried to hail your daughter-in-law. But...I was unsuccessful in that regard.”

The ghost looked away, then adjusted the phantom glasses on her face. “...my dear Paul...” Jane put on a sad smile. “Not everyone who passes will persist as a ghost.”

Paul blinked, then looked down to the floor. “...so you haven't...?”

Jane shook her head. “I've been around for a while, and spent most of it hovering around you and John. If Sarah were a Wraith, I probably would have seen her by now.” She smiled. “But that's not a bad thing. In fact, it's probably good!”

Paul looked up, confused. “Good?”

“Mister Egbert,” Aradia said, looking over. “Being a wraith is a sign of something going wrong. People are meant to pass on when they die. Not linger.”

“Don't fret now, son,” Jane said, holding up a hand. “Sarah is better off than I am. I've had too many regrets in my life...too many things holding me back. But I'm sure that Sarah had no such problems. She – and your uncle Jake too, probably – are likely up in heaven now.”

A small smile appeared on Paul's lips. “You think?”

“Have faith, dear,” Jane said. “Your wife passed without regrets. Believe, with all your heart, that she's with God now. Never let any man, or mystic, or fearful phantom hierarch tell you otherwise.”

To the side, Aradia looked ready to make some commentary, but shut her mouth. She just smiled, sitting comfortably.

“...thanks, mom.” Paul took his hat off, smiling fondly at the ghost.

“Now enough of such sad subjects,” Jane said, waving her hand. “Let's speak of happier things. It took some doing, but I managed to track my ashes back to the East Coast.” She leaned over, ghostly eyebrows wiggling. “Who is this new lady?”

Paul blushed. “Mother!” He laughed, covering his face.

Jane joined him, the two giggling.

The man wiped his eye. “...Roxy,” he said, looking at the floor. “She's...an energetic, lively woman.”

“Are you fond of her?”

“Well...I'm certainly fond of her company,” Paul said, placing the hat back on his head. He tilted the brim low over his eyes. “...I just...”

“You feel guilty,” Jane said, hovering over the floor. “That you've somehow betrayed Sarah?”

“...yes.”

“Don't be silly, Paul.” Jane displayed her ephemeral hands. “If Sarah were here, she wouldn't admonish you for moving on. For heaven's sake, you've had over a decade to mourn. It's okay to date again.”

Paul frowned, crossing her arms. “...do you think so?”

“Sarah loved you, Paul,” his mother said. “She would want you to be happy. She would want John to have a mother around, who could dote on him...spoil him. Give him mommy kisses when he scraped his knees. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to give him grandmommy kisses.” She chuckled.

The man smiled, pushing up the brim of his hat. “You would have done great, mom.”

“Damn straight, son,” Jane said, smirking. “I wish you and Roxy the best.”

“Thank you, mom.”

“And get me some grandchildren!” Jane said, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Mom!” Paul said, blushing beet red. “You already have John!”

“I want _more_ grandchildren, Paul!” Jane said, gesticulating with her hands. “One is simply not enough! Especially if that one is going to do great, wonderful, heroic things!”

Paul started laughing, shutting his eyes. “Ha ha ha!” He wiped his eyes. “Alright! Alright! I'll work on it! Anything else?”

“I could always use some talking to, every once in a while,” Jane said. “It's...hard to describe...”

Aradia sat up, waving her hand. “Mister Egbert, ghosts thrive when their families honor them,” she said. “Provide for their afterlife.”

“Really?” Paul said, looking over.

The young woman nodded. “They feed on passion, and remembrance and sacrifice from family helps bulwark them against the darkness of the Shadowlands.”

“Just so, young lady,” Jane said. “Just a prayer for me, every now and again. The mantle back at the house helped me more than you could ever know, Paul.”

Paul nodded. “I think I can do that,” he said, “although I don't know how...if there are rules or something for this...”

“I can help you, Mister Egbert,” Aradia said. “I recently spent a lot of time in Mexico, where I learned a lot about Catholic ancestor rites. I can teach you how to set up a shrine, and make offerings for your mother...and your wife, if you want.”

Paul looked to the floor, thoughtfully. Then he smiled. “I would like that very much.”

* * *

By and by, the Egberts spoke of many things, then parted. With hearty goodbyes, Jane Egbert faded into smoke, returning to the Shadowlands.

Paul and Aradia made their way up to the tower's greenhouse. They looked out across the island, and the infinite blue beyond.

The man sighed, holding the box of urns in his hands. “...Miss Megido...where did you learn about Christianity?” Paul said. “I take it you're a devout Hindu. Did you learn from your time in Mexico?”

Aradia smiled, letting the sunlight wash over her. “Not completely,” she said. “Oh sure, I learned a lot there, just like I learned a lot in Greece, Africa, and Egypt. But before any of that, I had another friend. She's a Saint Thomas Christian. In India, we call them Nasrani.”

“A Saint Thomas Christian?” Paul said, eyebrows climbing. “You know, I always knew that the Apostle Thomas took his ministry to India. I just...never thought about it much.”

“Most people in the West don't,” Aradia said, smirking, “to my friend's consternation. Feferi always felt marginalized – both by being a Christian in a Hindu nation, and by being a Christian of a denomination that other Christians ignore.” The necromancer looked down at the landscape, watching four tiny figures retreat from the beach and head towards the building. “I think that's why we get along so well. She's a Christian in a country of Hindus, and I'm a Hindu in a state of Sikh. Punjab is rife with them, so it's easy to feel like a minority in your own lands. Heh heh!”

“That's why you're friends with this girl?” Paul said, watching the children come in fondly.

Aradia paused, looking up. She saw a column of smoke billow from the top of the resident volcano. “...well...one of many reasons...”

She smiled. “She has a Faith that staggers me, that Feferi. I could never bring myself to try to convert her.”

“Really?” Paul looked over, quizzically.

“Really.” Aradia grinned broadly. “Maybe before, I might have tried. But not now. Her light has grown too much. It would be a crime to destroy that now, trying to redirect it.

“It wasn't too long ago, that she took that crucial step forward...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in Magestuck: Akashakarma...
> 
> At the time of this writing, I'll be heading off on vacation for a week. Then, when I get back, I'll be going in for surgery. So, expect a hiatus on Magestuck for a little while. Rest assured, however, that I'll be thinking long and hard about how to continue the story. I've got so many plans, you guys. So many irons in the fire.


End file.
